Is That You, Lassiter? Is This Me?
by diablobruh587
Summary: There's a reason why Lassiter is so misanthropic and loves guns. He has a past riddled with bullets-and not just from being a cop. There's a past that he hasn't told anyone about. Vague summary but better story! Maybe slightly Lassiet but nothing serious. COMPLETE
1. I Am an American Soldier

_**Author's Note: This is my first fanfiction, so I'm a little shaky on the format but I'm trying my hardest. Please be patient! Please read and review as well, and don't be afraid to be critical—those are the ones I live for! I don't own**_ **Psych,** _ **just enjoy watching it. Also don't own the reference to**_ **Full Metal Jacket** _ **in the title or the chapter titles, which come from the "Soldier's Creed." And without further ado…**_

 _You puny, weak little slug! You're not good enough to lick the clay off my boots!_

Lassiter blinked his eyes rapidly to dispel the memory that echoed in his head and returned his attention to the ungodly bright screen in front of him. It was near two in the morning at the station, but he hadn't wanted to go home yet. His caseload wasn't heavy, in fact it was just one case—a twenty-two-year-old male had been shot to death in a warehouse. His hands had been tied behind his back and he'd been blindfolded. So far, no leads had turned up and their only suspect was a vagrant that had been squatting in the warehouse at the time, though it was widely agreed that he had been too stoned at the time to commit the act or even fill out a witness statement.

He roughly rubbed his eyes and yawned. Taking a sip of cold coffee, he pulled the crime scene photos from the file on his desk and studied them closer. There had to be something in all the blood that would lead him to the killer. If Spencer were here, he would've taken one look at the picture and instantly "divined" who the killer was. Lassiter grimaced. He hated being the bumbling cop who became the butt of that happy-go-lucky, ignorance-is-bliss man-child's jokes. Especially after all he'd been through.


	2. I Am a Warrior

" _Pick your feet up, grunt! My grandma could set her hair, cook dinner, take a dump, and still get to that hill faster than you!"_

 _Young Lassiter picked up his pace ever-so-slightly, but his breathing was already labored and he could hardly see straight._

 _Another sergeant—Sergeant Brackon—sprinted up next to Lassiter and bumped him to the left. The sergeant on his left—Sergeant Herst, the one doing the most yelling—immediately shoved him back to the right. "Watch where you're going, you little puke!"_

 _Lassiter grit his teeth and kept running, ignoring the barrage of insults just like he'd been conditioned to._

 _"Hey, buttwipe," Sergeant Brackon mocked, "recite the Soldier's Creed. Right now!"_

 _Lassiter coughed laboriously in reply. His tongue, swollen from lack of water, refused to move and force out those words he had repeated over and over during the past six weeks._

 _Sergeant Brackon sped up and jogged backwards in front of him. "You hear me? I said recite the Soldier's Creed!"_

 _Lassiter summoned some saliva to his arid mouth and swished it around, then spit it to the side as he ran. Finally, he began to recite: "I am an American soldier! I am a warrior and a member of a team—"_

 _"Speak up!"  
Lassiter raised his voice to a hoarse yell, his voice cracking every other word. "I serve the people of the United States, and live the Army values! I will always place the mission first! I will never accept defeat! I will never quit! I will never leave a fallen comrade—"_

 _With those words, Sergeant Herst unceremoniously fell to the ground. Lassiter skidded to a stop (not an easy task with over one hundred pounds of gear stuffed into his backpack) and spun around to see Sergeant Herst propped up on an elbow and grinning at him. He looked like a camo pinup girl._

 _"Well? You gonna help him or not?" Sergeant Brackon barked beside him._

 _Lassiter faltered. He was already carrying a load much too heavy for him to run with, the sergeant couldn't possibly expect him to carry more, could he?_

 _"Pick him up, soldier," Sergeant Brackon ordered. "Remember? 'I will never leave a fallen comrade.'"_

 _"Sir, yes sir!"_

 _He jogged over to Sergeant Herst and attempted to pull him into a sitting position, but the sergeant began exaggeratedly thrashing around and screaming._

 _"Oh geez," he moaned, still wearing a grin, "I've been shot! I've been shot!"_

 _Lassiter fumbled, trying to get him to hold still so he could pull him up and over his shoulder like he'd been taught, but Sergeant Herst flailed his arms and made it impossible for him to approach._

 _"Is there a problem here, grunt?" Sergeant Brackon growled._

 _"Sir! Sergeant Herst is moving too much and I can't get ahold of him, sir!" Lassiter shouted back._

 _"Sergeant Herst is in shock!" Sergeant Brackon grinned devilishly and winked at his buddy on the ground, who winked back. "Soldiers in the field will often go into shock after being wounded! You need to work around that!"_

 _"Sir, yes sir!"_

 _Lassiter turned back to Sergeant Herst, who began thrashing and moaning again. He was having a hard time seeing still—sweat had run into his eyes and the salt had stung and nearly blinded him. The heat from the late afternoon Georgia sun was beating down on his back and soaking him with sweat, making it hard to get a grip anywhere on Sergeant Herst's body._

 _Finally, Lassiter managed to straddle his body and hook his arms under his armpits, pulling him into a standing position. Then, using the hold he had been taught, he swung Sergeant Herst's 200-pound body up and over his shoulder, linking his hand and leg together in a loop around his neck so he didn't fall off._

 _Lassiter looked to Sergeant Brackon to receive orders on what to do next, but Sergeant Brackon had begun jogging already and was more than 200 yards ahead of him._

 _"Guess you're gonna need to start running," Sergeant Herst taunted from his shoulder._

 _"Sir, yes sir!" Lassiter replied obediently, though he wasn't sure how he was going to do that. He gingerly took a step to make sure he could move without falling over. He tipped a little, but he didn't fall over._ So far, so good, _he thought. He took another step, then another._

 _"Hey, man!" Sergeant Herst whined. "I'm bleeding out here! You gotta pick up the pace, son!"_

 _"Sir, yes sir!" Lassiter began walking faster. Sweat drenched his body and his muscles burned. The heat began making him partially hallucinate, and he could've sworn he smelled bread being made. Bread would taste good right about now. Bread and a nice tall glass of water, with ice. Yeah, that'd be nice. Maybe if he could just set this weight down—_

 _"What're you doing, idiot? Stand back up and get running!"_

 _Lassiter found that in his daze he had stopped and kneeled on the dirt road. "Sir, yes sir!" He stood up at a snail's pace, his breath coming in shallow gasps and his muscles screaming at him. He let out a little gasp that he hoped Sergeant Herst had not heard._

 _"It's only half a mile, grunt! Get me home!"_

 _"Sir, yes sir!"_

 _Lassiter began a light jog, though his body protested. His vision was still blurry and he felt like he was going to throw up. He was practically bent in half with all the weight on his back. It didn't help that Sergeant Herst yelled encouraging comments in his ear every few steps, like "You're an idiot," "You'll never make it, grunt," and (his personal favorite) "My fat, pregnant wife could run circles around you." And, of course, Lassiter followed each of these with a breathless, barely audible, "Sir, yes sir!"_

 _It was getting darker outside now, and the forest flanking the dirt road began to ominously close in around them._ Only a half mile, _Lassiter kept telling himself as a mantra of sorts. His jog was barely more than an ambitious walk, but at this point he didn't care, he just wanted to be back at base so he could eat some tasteless food, then sleep in his urine-stained cot._

 _Up ahead, a structure loomed into view. Could it be?_

 _"Hey, old boy! Looky there! Home sweet home, eh?"_

 _"Sir, yes sir!"_

 _Lassiter picked up his pace slightly, invigorated by the thought of a rest. Sergeant Herst was still yelling in his ear, but he couldn't hear him anymore. He focused on that dark shape, those barracks he had come to hate so much that, ironically, he now longed for._

 _One hundred yards to go._

 _His feet smacked the pavement hard with each step._

 _Fifty yards left._

 _The rest of the recruits were already there, bent over and panting. They simply stared as Lassiter lumbered his way towards them._

 _Ten yards left._

 _Five yards._

 _Home._

 _"Congratulations, grunt," Sergeant Herst mumbled in his ear, "You made it."_

 _"Sir, yes sir!"_

 _Lassiter carefully set Sergeant Herst back on his feet and saluted him._

 _"You may just be something someday, Lassiter," Sergeant Brackon said behind him. Lassiter turned to face him. "But probably not."_

 _"Sir, yes sir!" And with that, he fell forward on the ground, passed out cold._


	3. And a Member of a Team

_**Author's Note:**_ _Hello everyone! Thanks for reading this far—it really means a lot to me. Just a quick disclaimer: I apologize if any of my facts are off, either ones from_ Psych _itself or just general facts. If there's anything important I need to change, remember to review and tell me what's up! Once again, I don't own_ Psych. _Also don't own_ The Breakfast Club,St. Elmo's Fire, _or_ Pretty in Pink. _References made to Season One's "Spellingg Bee."_

 _FYI: I know I forgot to mention this at the beginning so I'm mentioning it now—this story takes place sometime around Season Four because (and I know I'm shallow) that's when I liked Lassiter's hair the best._

"Carlton. Carlton!"

Someone was shaking him awake. He groaned loudly, hoping the anger and volume of the noise would scare off whatever prepubescent freak had disturbed his slumber.

"Get up, Carlton. There's been a break in the case."

Carlton's head shot up from the puddle of drool on his desk to see O'Hara standing over him. She grimaced at his unimpressive appearance—wrinkled suit, flushed complexion, drooping eyelids. "A break?"

O'Hara rolled her eyes. "Yes, a break. One of our officers found a gun in a tree about five miles from the crime scene. Ballistics is analyzing it right now, but it looks like the same caliber that shot Daniel Choi." She gave him another onceover. "You didn't sleep here, did you?"

Lassiter stood and popped his neck an unnecessary number of times. "Of course not, O'Hara. I went home and had myself a nice cup of tea and watched reruns of _Cops_ and then slept soundly knowing that a killer was on the loose in Santa Barbara and we have no idea who it is."

O'Hara's eyes narrowed with concern. "You've certainly done that before. What is it, Carlton? Why does this case mean so much to you?"

"It doesn't, O'Hara," Lassiter replied, much too quickly. "I just want it to get solved quickly so the victim's family can get closure."

Juliet seemed unconvinced—she knew her partner. He was normally coarse and unintentionally cruel when it came to murder investigation. She recalled when the judge at a spelling bee had been murdered and his body had fallen out into a crowd of mortified children and parents; Carlton had suggested that the event go on as planned because, in his own words, the body "didn't land on anyone." But she shrugged her shoulders and followed her partner to the chief's office to report the break, just as she'd been taught to do.

When Lassiter entered the chief's office, he immediately rolled his eyes. Spencer was dancing around the room with another one of his "visions." Guster stood next to him, pretending to aid him through his idiotic episode. Lassiter stepped over the rolling man-child on the floor and plopped himself down into one of the wooden chairs opposite the chief, wishing he had some popcorn to eat while he watched Spencer make a fool of himself.

"Mommy, mommy!" Spencer screamed, sounding like a whiny toddler. "Mommy, help me!"

 _Mom! Oh God. Oh God. Oh God. MOM! HELP ME!_

Lassiter blinked his eyes hard. _That was weird._

"Mr. Spencer, unless this has something to do with the case, I'm going to have ask you to get off my floor," Chief Vick warned.

"He's getting something about the killer," Guster assured her. "Shawn! Shawn! Tell us what you're seeing!"

"Mom? Mom!" Spencer wailed. "I didn't mean to! Mom?"

Lassiter smirked. God, Spencer really was a piece of work.

 _I didn't mean to! I had to get out of there! Oh, Mom…_

Lassiter vigorously shook his head. His eyes had widened at the sudden memory, which he tried to push back into his head, far back to where it couldn't resurface.

"The killer," Shawn gasped, "he was young!"

"Young?" Chief Vick questioned earnestly. "How young, Mr. Spencer?"

Spencer stood up, apparently finished with his fit. "Somewhere between Andrew Clark and John Bender. Or Emilio Estevez and Judd Nelson."

"Shawn, those are the same people," Guster chastened.

"No, you're thinking Rob Lowe and Andrew McCarthy."

"Shawn, that was _St. Elmo's Fire._ "

"Same movie."

"No, it's not, Shawn. _St. Elmo's Fire_ was way better than _The Breakfast Club_."

"Who said anything about _The Breakfast Club_? I was talking about _Pretty in Pink._ "

Chief Vick held up a hand to stop the juvenile quarrel. "Let's stick to the case, shall we? So, Mr. Spencer, the killer is a teenager. Probably about a junior or senior in high school?"

Spencer put a hand to his temple. Lassiter rolled his eyes. "That's what the spirits are telling me, Chief. That and Lassiter is in a grumpy mood and needs to be given his juice box and graham crackers." Spencer cracked a smile at Lassiter. Lassiter sneered back.

But, suddenly, Spencer's face was gone. His youthful complexion was replaced by a grizzled soldier's, wearing sunglasses and a hard green helmet with a canvas covering. The soldier was grinning, his teeth dazzling white against the dirt caked onto his entire face. The soldier saluted and Lassiter half-raised his hand out of habit to return it.

"Sergeant Rich?" Lassiter whispered incredulously. The rest of the room stared at him quizzically.

"Excuse me, Detective?" Chief Vick's brow was furrowed in confusion.

Lassiter wiped his eyes with his hand and the vision evaporated, leaving him staring at a confused psychic, an equally befuddled pharmaceutical sales rep, a concerned partner, and a stern-looking chief.

"Sorry, Chief," Lassiter mumbled, standing. He cleared his throat loudly. "So, we know the killer is a teenager?"

Chief Vick was not convinced her head detective was actually okay, but she knew better than to press him. The more one poked and prodded at the reclusive man, the more he retreated into his armored shell. She turned back to her two childish consultants. "Do you have any more information on the killer?"

Spencer and Guster both shook their hands and made exaggerated "uh-uh" noises. Chief Vick sighed. "Alright, well at least we know something about this killer. Continue trying to scour those crime scene photos and hope for a witness to call in."

They all murmured their assents and turned to leave. Spencer and Guster practically bounded out of the room, chatting excitedly about bacon cheeseburgers and chili fries and something else probably not kind to the colon. O'Hara exited next, making a beeline straight to her desk to further examine the crime scene photos she had been analyzing for days now. Lassiter made a move to slowly follow her but was stopped by a firm "Lassiter" from Chief Vick. He turned to see her standing next to her desk with her arms folded.

"Yes, Chief?"

"What happened here today?"

Lassiter swallowed and scratched the back of his neck. "Nothing. Just didn't get much sleep last night." He attempted a sheepish grin.

Chief Vick didn't smile back. "Is there anything else you want to talk about, Detective?"

Lassiter dropped the grin and tiredly rubbed his face. "No, Chief," he said from behind his fingers.

Chief Vick opened her mouth to say something more, but then quickly shut it again. "Alright, then. You can go."

"Thank you, Chief." Lassiter trudged out of the office and back to his desk.

But the truth was there was something wrong with him, something he needed to talk about, but it wasn't anything he could ever tell Chief Vick or anyone else about. Beside the fact that what he wanted to talk about would probably nauseate or terrify anyone he told, he knew that even if someone could stomach it, they wouldn't understand. You had to experience it. You had to be there.

He couldn't forget the image he had seen earlier. He could have sworn his squad leader, Sergeant Thomas Rich, was standing right in front of him. Not only that, but he looked exactly as he had before their last mission together. The same cocksure smile, the same easy tilt to his helmet, the same week-old stubble that never seemed to mature into a full beard.

With a heavy sigh, Lassiter sank into his leather chair and reminisced about the first time he met Sergeant Rich.


	4. I Serve the People of the United States

_**Author's Note: Hey everyone who's read this far! Hope you're enjoying it. Just like to repeat again that I do not own Psych. I also don't own the reference to any of these actors that I mention, El Dorado, or Catch-22 (if you caught that reference). I'd like to say again that I'd love some reviews! I don't care if they're nice or super critical—any review is helpful! If any facts are wrong (especially about the military stuff), if my story isn't engaging you enough, if something needs to be added or removed, if you want something to happen—just tell me! Thanks again!**_

 _ **Update: I re-edited this chapter because I did some more research on army organization and order of ranks and found that in a squad, the highest-ranking member would have been a sergeant, not a captain. So, I switched everyone's rank accordingly.** **Also, i** **t appears that there was only one combat-related death during the Bosnia-Herzegovina war, so I am having to edit the setting to accommodate accordingly. I am now putting Lassiter in the Gulf War. This is what I get for not editing my story right? Thanks for your patience!**_

" _Nah, man, I'm telling you. John Wayne could whip both Humphrey Bogart's and Harrison Ford's sorry butts without even blinking an eye."_

" _You kidding me? John Wayne was so out of shape he could've killed himself blowing out a candle. Didn't you see_ El Dorado _?"_

" _What about Chuck Norris? That dude could take them all on and still be ready to take on all of Bosnia if he wanted to."_

" _Bruce Lee was a pretty good fighter."_

" _Bruce Lee was Japanese."_

" _Chinese, you idiot."_

 _The men were sitting in the empty mess hall playing poker. The mess hall was practically wilting in the desert heat. Despite the fact that it was two in the morning, ht heat was still potent enough to break the cheap mercury thermometer in the corner of the room, something the men often made bets on during the day. A package of ice cold beer sat on the metal table in front of them—a gift from a Iraqi villager who was probably hoping the Americans would leave if he gave it to them. They didn't, though they wished they could._

 _The men had just gotten off a grueling patrol an hour ago. Nothing interesting had happened, except for a few distant mortar shells and a jet flying overhead—normal occurrences in the war zone. When they came back, the men were still too on edge to sleep, so they had mutually agreed to blow off steam with a low-stakes game of poker._

 _Corporal Lutz threw down his cards. "C'mon, Shirley! You've dealt me crap every hand! You're cheating, you lying scum."_

 _PFC "Shirley" Farrell—a name he acquired for always carrying two grenades in his front shirt pockets (even when he slept), giving him two miniscule lumps that did not go unnoticed by his buddies—merely smiled and bet a few poker chips. Lutz scowled but picked up his cards again, knowing he was about to lose all his money but embracing his inevitable loss._

 _PFC Daniels—"Pi" to his buddies—took a swill of his ice cold beer and wiped the foam from his mouth. "So, whaddya guys think the new squad leader's gonna be like?"_

 _Corporal Merrillson threw in a few red chips and commented, "Probably a lot like all these other officers—like a middle-aged housewife with a stick up his butt." A few of the guys chuckled at the amusing yet oh-so-accurate description._

" _Remember that one colonel that came through here a few months ago?" Shirley bit into a ham sandwich and recounted the rest of the story through a mouthful of bread and meat. "Comes up to me and asks me why I ain't wearing my stripes on my shoulders. After all, I weren't no general or anyone else high up, so snipers wouldn't pick me off._

" _Well, I didn't want to tell him that I ripped 'em off 'cause they kept fallin' off anyways. That corporal's a terrible tailor. Anyways, so I look him right in the eye and I say, 'I'm a major, sir.' Well, he looks at me and says, 'You're a major?' and I say, 'Yes, sir.' And he thinks on this for a minute, and then he's like, 'Then why you diggin' this latrine?' 'Cause see that's what I was doin' when he came up. Diggin' that new latrine over by the showers with Bigmouth and Skittles.s_

" _Well, I looked at him and I said, 'Because, sir, I like to work with my men. Let 'em know I care about 'em and wanna help 'em. I ain't above 'em.' Well, this colonel didn't know much because he just told me to carry on and keep being the leader I was and walked outta there like I was actually a major. How's that for a field promotion?"_

 _The rest of the group laughed raucously at Shirley's story—always the class clown. His stories were often the only respite during their tour. The only exception to the jocularity was Private Carlton Lassiter— "Lassie" to the rest of the guys. He hadn't had the best experiences with the previous squad leaders—they'd been through five already._

 _The first guy probably wouldn't have been too bad, but a tank shell took him out (and three other squad members) in the first week. Lassiter chalked it up to a stroke of bad luck, but his next squad leader went out the same way—tank shell—and was gone before anyone got a chance to know him. From then on, Lassiter learned not to form emotional attachments to any of his superiors, or any other squad members for that matter. He'd gotten used to the consistent badgering over the years to buck up and truly join in with the squad and become a team member, but he still hadn't changed._

 _Twenty-two. He'd watched as twenty-two young men with hopeful eyes had been destroyed like little paper men by bombs and bullets and grenades. He'd known every one personally, and each one had felt like a stab straight through his stomach, killing him slowly as their blood colored the desert sand around them, their eyes no longer hopeful, but glassy and unseeing. Since then, he'd hardened himself. No longer would he feel that stab of pain every time a man died. He would be impassable to all emotion._

 _He was one of two original members of the squad—Sergeant Maxwell Mann ("Macho" to his former squad members—who were all gone now) was the other. Macho was five years Lassiter's senior—making him about twenty-eight. He was much too skinny to truly look like a soldier, but he more than made up for it with his bushy black beard which he never shaved, as it doubled as camoflauge. He always wore his tan, canvas-covered helmet, as two of his buddies had been shot in the head when they had wandered off to take a leak without their helmets. He was often made fun of by the younger members of the squad, but he had seen too much death and suffering to pay them any attention. Like Lassiter, he didn't form relationships with his team anymore—too much liability and heartbreak. It was easier to go through the war without buddies._

 _Lassiter and Macho made eye contact and solemnly nodded at one another, both thinking the same thoughts._ All these men will be dead in a matter of months. They better laugh it up now because their days are numbered.

 _Suddenly, the mess hall door swung open and hit the wall behind it with a loud thud. As soon as the group saw who it was, they immediately jumped to attention._

" _As you were, men," a surprisingly high voice instructed. The men looked at each other uneasily and slowly sank back onto the metal benches of the tables. They picked up their cards again, but no one looked at them or payed any attention to the game anymore. They all waited for their new squad leader to speak so they could see what he was like, who he was._

 _The three yellow stripes sewed to his shoulders indicated he was a sergeant, like all the others before him. However, he was much younger than all the others before. Or maybe the substantial lack of facial hair just made him look younger, as his stubble was no more than a slight brownish shade to his face, only visible if you squinted. His eyes had crow's feet around them, indicative of much smiling over the years. As if to accentuate this feature, the man smiled warmly and surveyed his new squad._

" _Good evening," he greeted in that tenor voice. "Little late for a card game, isn't it?" He checked his brand-new, Army-issued watch. "It's 0220."_

 _Lutz, always striving to be teacher's pet, spoke up. "We just got off patrol an hour ago, sir. It's how we blow off steam." He kept his head down, as if ashamed to look the captain in the eyes. Lassiter wondered if subconsciously he also knew how little time this man had left._

" _Understandable," the sergeant agreed amiably. "Well, men, we're gonna be together for a while, so we might as well get to know each other. My name is Sergeant Thomas Rich, named after the late great Thomas Jefferson. Or Tom Cruise. Whichever you prefer to believe."_

 _The men nervously laughed. Sergeant Rich shook his head and giggled at their timidity. He probably couldn't believe that these men were some of the most lethal in the Army. "Let's clear the air, men. I know you're all nervous about having a new squad leader, getting used to my quirks and how I like things. But let me set your minds at ease: I don't intend to change things here. I simply intend to carry out orders from the powers-that-be and try and keep you guys alive at the same time. I'll only yell at you if you really screw up. Like if you die or something." The men laughed a little more comfortably now, with smiles creeping onto their faces. "But, other than that, I'm going to let you men continue being who you are: one of the top special squads in the Army. No reason to fix something that ain't broken."_

" _I'll drink to that," Shirley drawled as he clinked beer cans with Merrillson. Pi whooped and took a swig from his own can._

 _Sergeant Rich chuckled heartily and, picking up his own can from the gathering on the table, took a generous gulp of the ice cold drink. He smacked his lips and spoke again. "I'd also like you guys to know that I understand this position has a high turnover. Five squad leaders in the past year and a half. Those aren't good odds." He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "So, I want you guys to know that I am aware of the risk I'm taking. But I'm okay with that. I knew that when I joined the Army there was a chance I wouldn't come home alive. But that's okay. Better to live on your feet than to die on your knees, right?" The men murmured assent and sipped their beer in silent contemplation of their mortality._

 _His statement struck a chord with and immediately won Macho's respect. "Hear hear," he whispered and, standing to leave, clapped Sergeant Rich on the shoulder as he left. Sergeant Rich struggled to restrain the pride in his eyes, as he understood how important it was to earn the respect of such a man._

 _The men continued their friendly card game, exchanging dirty stories, war stories, childhood stories, heartbreaking stories—anything to break the ice and keep the night going. Everyone was getting along swimmingly and no one wanted it to end. The game went into the wee hours of the morning and, by the end of it, every man felt that if Sergeant Rich had asked him, they would have walked straight through the bullets of a thousand rifles into a lake of fire. He was their savior, the man they loved, the man they would follow anywhere. He just_ got _it. He knew what they were going through, and he didn't want to change them. He was going to help them, to be their buddy, to be their father. All of them were ready to walk into battle with this man._

 _All except Private Lassiter. He wasn't about to let himself get that close to anyone again. He'd been hurt too much by this war, by this cruel world, to ever let himself feel anything but hate and indifference for anyone ever again. With a heavy sigh, he picked up his rifle, put on his helmet, and left the chattering, laughing men in the mess hall._


	5. And Live the Army Values

It was about four in the afternoon when another break was made in the case. The lab monkeys in ballistics had analyzed the gun and found the caliber to match the bullet that killed Daniel Choi. Not only that, but (after some tedious detective work by O'Hara and Lassiter) they were able to track down the owner of the gun—a Mr. Kelly Murray of Ojala. Obviously, the middle-aged man didn't fit the teenage profile that they were working from, but his gun _had_ been the murder weapon, so Detectives Lassiter and O'Hara set off for Ojala to investigate.

It was on the hour-long drive there that O'Hara couldn't stand it any longer.

"What happened today, Carlton?"

Lassiter pulled at his shirt collar but otherwise did nothing to acknowledge that she had even spoken. He tried to block her out by reciting the names of rifles in his head. _.30-06….300 Win Mag…AK-47…_

"Carlton," she repeated in a firmer tone, "don't ignore me. I'm not Shawn or Gus or the Chief. I'm your _partner._ You can tell me."

Carlton ignored her again and began fiddling with the air conditioning. It felt like a sauna in the car. He blasted the A/C to try and evaporate the sweat beading on his brow, but O'Hara immediately switched it off again.

This was getting nowhere. She needed to use a different tactic. With an evil glint in her eye, O'Hara frantically screamed, "Carlton! Pull over!"

Jumping nearly a mile in the air, Carlton weaved across two lanes of traffic and abruptly came to a stop on the shoulder. He pulled his gun out instinctively. "What? What is it?" he asked in a panicked tone.

O'Hara smiled. "Knew that would get your attention."

"What?"

"I'm sorry. But it was the only way to get you to answer me."

Lassiter's mouth was agape as he clutched his cocked gun in front of him. With rage contorting his features into an ugly scowl, Lassiter flipped his gun back to safety and re-holstered it, all the while cursing and muttering about how women needed to learn to keep their mouths shut and let men be. His hand started for the gear shift but O'Hara was one step ahead of him and had already turned the ignition off and pulled the keys out by the time he rested his hand on the stick. He looked up with his trademark scowl.

"O'Hara, we don't have time for this. There is a murderer on the loose and we need to go to Ojala to figure out where he is. Now, give me the keys!" He made a wild lunge for the keys, but O'Hara pulled them just out of reach.

"Uh-uh, Carlton." She pocketed them and stared defiantly into Lassiter's eyes. He looked away and, resting an elbow on the car door, pouted off into space. O'Hara rolled her eyes and pulled his chin roughly back to face her. "Look at me.

"What happened today was not normal. You weren't just tired. You weren't just stressed about the case. Something happened in the chief's office today, and you're either too ashamed, too scared, or a little of both to admit it." She softened her voice and let go of Lassiter's chin, though he remained looking at her. "We're partners, Carlton. That means we don't lie to each other, and we don't keep secrets. You need to tell me what's going on. You trust me, don't you?"

Lassiter solemnly nodded. O'Hara continued, still using a soft tone. "Good. Now, before we go any farther, I think you have some things you need to tell me."

It was silent for a long time. O'Hara expectantly, eagerly awaiting Lassiter's explanation, Lassiter staring ahead through the windshield at nothing. O'Hara noticed that Lassiter's closed fist was shaking from how hard it was clenched. She knew he only did that when he was furious, usually with something involving Shawn. But Shawn wasn't here. So, what had made Lassiter so angry? What had made him have that "episode" in the Chief's office today?

What was wrong with her partner?

A dangerous cocktail of emotions brewed within Lassiter. At first, he felt shame. Shame at what he had put O'Hara through these last few hours and shame at embarrassing himself like that in front of his coworkers. Then he felt fear. Fear of what they would think, fear that more episodes awaited him in the future. But then, all he felt was rage. Rage at what the Army had done to him, rage at what had happened to Sergeant Rich, rage at the lasting effects of that fateful morning and the damage it had caused in his life. He clenched his fist so hard he felt his nails digging into his palms.

He didn't want to tell O'Hara. It was a part of his life he never wanted to relive or even think about, and he had succeeded in achieving that for the better part of twenty years. But now it was all coming back to bite him in the butt, and he wasn't ready for it. Besides, what would she think of him after he told her? Would she still see him as the stoic, unflappable, strong cop he had strived for years to be or would she see him as weak, unable to even rid himself of his own past?

He looked back at his partner. A few strands of blonde hair had fallen out of her bun and dangled in front of her face. Her stormy blue eyes were hopefully awaiting his response. She wanted to help him. She wanted to heal him. She just wanted her partner back. And she had a right to know. After all, partners didn't keep secrets. He opened his mouth to tell her—to tell her everything.

" _Bad boys, bad boys, whatcha gonna do?"_

O'Hara glared as Lassiter whipped out his phone with a small sigh of relief and answered. "Lassiter."

"Carlton."

"Chief Vick." He put the phone on speaker so O'Hara could hear as well.

"Where are you two?" Chief Vick demanded.

Lassiter checked a road sign. "Mira Monte."

"Shouldn't you be there already?"

Lassiter shot a pointed glance at O'Hara. "We had some…delays."

Chief Vick paused. Lassiter knew she wasn't buying it but she went on regardless. "We did some digging on Mr. Murray after you left, with the aid of Mr. Spencer." Lassiter rolled his eyes and O'Hara lightly punched his arm. "We found that Mr. Murray has a teenage son, about the estimated age of the killer."

Lassiter raised his eyebrows. "Alright, thanks for the heads up, Chief."

"Wait, there's one more thing. Mr. Murray had another son as well. He died two years ago on his twenty-third birthday."

O'Hara spoke up. "How did he die?"

"Killed in Iraq. He was an Army Ranger." Lassiter visibly stiffened. O'Hara cocked an eyebrow at him but said nothing.

"Thanks, Chief," she replied. "We'll keep that in mind." She ended the call and gave the phone back to Lassiter, who was still stiff as a board in the driver's seat. His hands were tightly gripping the steering wheel and he was gritting his teeth hard enough to bite a penny in half.

O'Hara restrained the urge to assault Lassiter with a barrage of questions. _What happened in the Chief's office today? What did you see? Why did you react that way when the Chief mentioned the words "Army Ranger?" What happened in your past that you're not telling me? Why won't you tell me what's going on? What are you so afraid of?_ But she knew she couldn't ask them—at least not yet. She knew that just asking a bunch of questions would cause Lassiter to retreat further in his shell, not open up to her. Besides, there were more pressing matters to deal with. She looked at him with sympathy and understanding.

"We need to talk, Carlton." She gave him back the keys. He took them without saying a word or looking at her. "But we've got a case to solve. So, you're just going to have to fill me in later."

Lassiter relaxed slightly and started the car. O'Hara continued. "But you have to promise me that you'll tell me everything that's been going on and exactly what's wrong. Do you understand?"

Lassiter mumbled something under his breath.

"Look at me, Carlton." He reluctantly obeyed, his eyes wide like a deer in headlights. "Promise me. Promise me you'll tell me so I can help you get through whatever it is you need to get through."

He paused, thinking about everything he'd have to tell her, all the horrible things he'd have to relive, the memories he thought he'd hidden forever. He'd have to tell her every gory detail, every painful story—every mistake he made. It would be humiliating. Heart wrenching.

But she deserved to know. He nodded. "I promise, partner."

He pulled back onto the road and continued their drive to Ojala.


	6. I Will Always Place the Mission First

_**Author's Note: Thanks for the reads and reviews, guys! This story is so much fun to write and I hope y'all are enjoying reading it!**_ _ **Quick FYI: if you go back to chapter four and read the A/N, you'll notice I've had to do some edits because I don't plan my stories or research anything (I'm real smart). Anyway, I'll sum up: ranks have been changed but who's in charge of the squad hasn't, and the setting has changed from the Bosnia-Herzegovina War to the Gulf War.**_

 _They'd spent a grueling week hunkered down in a trench behind a dune ridge. The waiting had been interminable. Basic training had not adequately prepared Lassiter for the ludicrous amount of boredom and restlessness he would experience in the Army. He spent most of his days with his back against the outer wall of the trench, straining his ears for any noise whatsoever that would give him a reason to pop his head over the edge of the foxhole and squeeze a few rounds off. He was getting antsy, rearing for the fight that seemed to never come._

 _When he wasn't staring off into space or disassembling and reassembling his M16A4 (he'd gotten down to forty seconds), he chewed the fat with Macho. They spoke of previous missions, the men they'd gotten to know and died too soon, and their odds of surviving the current mission. Normally, Macho was the more pessimistic one, predicting that their odds of survival were one in fifty or (if it was a particularly routine mission) one in forty. However, ever since Sergeant Rich had taken over, Macho was much more optimistic, giving odds like one in ten and even one in five. Lassiter assumed a lot of his newfound optimism came from the fact that Sergeant Rich had basically taken a back seat to Macho, delegating more authority to him than most squad leaders would ever dare give a subordinate. But, he knew Macho deserved to be the squad leader (even though Command didn't), and he wanted Macho to know that he was aware of how screwed up chain of command could be. Because of this, Macho had gained even more respect for the likeable squad leader._

 _However, Sergeant Rich still didn't know how to get through to Private Lassiter. He was a distant boy (he still thought of him as a boy, though Lassiter was only two years his junior) and rarely talked with the rest of the squad. If he did, it was only to mark off coordinates of a suspected enemy position or to chastise the guys for being too noisy (some of the guys had taken to singing Bon Jovi songs at the top of their lungs to ease their insane boredom). He could hardly blame him, though. Through the drunken grapevine, he'd learned that the kid had already seen twenty-two of his buddies die over here. That was twenty-two men he'd probably shared a beer with, asked about their hometowns, seen pictures of their girlfriends, and then dragged their dead, bleeding bodies back to base. That kind of thing gets to a guy after a while._

 _It was after a week of staring at the same white sand (it had started to look like snow after a while—a cruel trick by Mother Nature if he'd ever seen one) that he decided to try and talk with Private Lassiter._

 _Sergeant Rich had dug a foxhole about twenty yards away, behind the same rolling dune that had provided them ample cover for the past seven days. Leaving Merrillson in charge of his hole, he duckwalked to Lassiter's trench, which he shared with Macho—the only other member of the squad who could get close to the kid. He deftly dropped into the pit and sat on his haunches across from Lassiter, who lackadaisically regarded him but immediately went back to disassembling his rifle._

 _"How's it hanging, Private," Sergeant Rich asked jovially._

 _"Fine, sir."_

 _Sergeant Rich waited, hoping the awkward silence he provided would make Lassiter uncomfortable enough to say something._

 _Unfortunately, Lassiter was not so easily coerced. He continued disassembling his rifle, mentally naming the parts as he went. Retaining pins…charging handle…BCG…firing pin…_

 _"You're pretty quick at that, ain't ya?"_

 _Lassiter continued his studious disassembling without looking up. "Yes, sir." He knew his disinterest and aloofness was insubordinate, but he found it was easier to cope with a soldier's impending death if you didn't look him in the eyes too much. Ghosts without eyes were less haunting. And he knew for a fact that Sergeant Rich wouldn't be around much longer. Not with the kind of luck his position had._

 _"Look at me, man," Sergeant Rich coaxed, not too kindly. Lassiter reluctantly looked up into the sand-blasted, dirt-streaked face of his superior, his own eyes red-rimmed from lack of sleep and the sand that blew into them. "Don't ignore me when I'm talking to you."_

 _"Yes, sir," Lassiter replied flatly._

 _Sergeant Rich sighed and looked at Macho. "You mind giving me a moment alone with Lassiter, man? Maybe you could go check up on Merrillson for me? He looked dangerously close to falling asleep when I left, and he sure isn't supposed to be asleep while guarding my hole."_

 _Macho nodded and silently hopped out of the foxhole, leaving Sergeant Rich and Lassiter alone in the dusty, sweat-laden pit._

 _Lassiter continued staring blankly at his sergeant. He wasn't afraid of the lecture he was about to receive. After all, it was only words. Words couldn't tear through him and rip him apart like a 7.62 mm shell from a T-62 tank had ripped apart Private Tyson or like a spray of bullets from an AK-47 had peppered Corporal Dawson's body. Words were abstract things. Wasted air. He couldn't hold, touch, or feel words the way he could feel blood pulsing through his body or flesh on his bones. Words were useless, which is why he chose to use so very little of them._

 _Sergeant Rich slid himself across the foxhole and seated himself next to Lassiter. The "buddy" tactic he was attempting made Lassiter want to vomit, but he managed to hold it in._

 _"Can't help but notice you don't make friends very easy, do you?" Sergeant Rich's voice was quiet, but it was firm. He wasn't here to nurse this kid through his personal trauma in the middle of the mission. No, that would have to come later._

 _"No, sir."_

 _"Also can't help but notice that you barely say two words to me when we talk."_

 _Lassiter glanced down at the pieces of M16 that surrounded him. Bolt…extractor…spring…lower receiver…_

 _"No, sir," Lassiter finally replied._

 _Sergeant Rich nodded. He picked up the charging handle from the dirt and began twirling it in his hand absentmindedly._

 _"Alright, listen up, soldier," Sergeant Rich said. "Don't say a word until I've finished, because I got a lot to say and not a lot of time to say it in. Because a bomb could drop on us any minute and then I wouldn't have the breath to say anything to you. So, you just sit there, shut up, and look at me until I've finished. And, for God's sake, stop fidgeting with that rifle in your hands._

 _"Look, man, I know you been through a lot. Twenty-two guys. That's a lot for a man to deal with. Especially since none of them were pretty deaths. Read in the brief that two of 'em got clobbered by LRPs. That had to've been a bloody mess. Hate to've been there." He looked up from the charging handle to make eye contact with Lassiter. "But you_ were _there. You_ did _see. And it_ was _a bloody mess._

 _"But, here's the thing. We're a squad here. We're on a mission. We have to get along with each other. That means we need to talk with each other. Be each other's buddy. Raise the morale, not lower it._

 _"Now, look, I'm not saying be the squad cheerleader or forget about all your buddies that got freakin' merked. But I am saying that you need to buck up and stop reliving the memories you had with all those guys. Right here, right now, in this foxhole, probably only a mile away from those ragheads, I need you to get your freakin' head in the game and start acting like an American soldier who's proud to be a part of his squad." Sergeant Rich paused to take a breath, having said all of his speech in practically one go. "Do I make myself clear, soldier?"_

 _Lassiter gave a resigned, "Yes, sir."_

 _Sergeant Rich let out a long breath through his nose. "And, hey, man. Everyone's got a chance of dying out here. And, the way things are going, I probably have the highest chance of anyone. I mean five guys in less than a year and half? Even Kennedy had better odds when he flew off to Dallas._

 _"But that doesn't mean that I'm not gonna do my best as a soldier out here. And it doesn't mean that I want any special protections from you guys. And it doesn't mean that I want you guys to mourn the heck out of me after I'm gone." He looked pointedly at Lassiter. "And it doesn't mean that I want you to take all the blame either, cuz I know that's exactly what you're doing right now."_

 _Lassiter's eyes widened with surprise, but he wasn't entirely astonished. It was probably clear to anyone near him that he didn't walk as tall as the others or hold his head as high. Every death, every wound, every misstep—he felt there was something he could have done to prevent it. Most of the time, there wasn't anything he could do. But what about when the sergeant asked him if he saw any enemies around the corner of the embankment and he'd answered no, only to have two Iraqi soldiers pop out from behind a cement wall? What about when he was too drowsy on guard duty to discern the two blurry shapes of T-55 tanks on the horizon? What about when he'd led the squad the wrong way in a frenzied panic after friendly fire from a group of Mohawks, landing them dead in the sights of the enemy? Those were_ his _blunders, and he knew it, and he would have to carry it. But he hadn't told anyone but Macho—who already knew anyway—about his mistakes. How did Sergeant Rich know, too?_

 _Sergeant Rich smiled forlornly. "You didn't think anyone could tell, did you? That some of those guys, their deaths were inadvertently your fault? To tell the truth, I don't think any of the other guys suspect it—they're all too young and inexperienced to know that kind of stuff. To know that sometimes you probably run through every scenario of what could have happened if you'd just been a little quicker, a little smarter. To know that you probably want to hurt yourself constantly for what you've done. To know that you probably don't think you should be the one to live when you caused the deaths of so many others._

 _"But I know, man…I know." He gazed off into space, ignoring Lassiter._

 _Lassiter stared at Sergeant Rich._ He knew. _Lassiter knew it wasn't just some hyperbole that he'd spouted to gain the trust of a subordinate. He really_ did _know. He could tell. He'd described everything Lassiter had been feeling perfectly: the what-ifs, the violent feelings and thoughts towards himself, the absolute uselessness and helplessness he felt. Like Lassiter, he'd acquired the "Thousand Yard Stare," something only the most hardened veterans had._ He knew.

 _Lassiter felt a deep pang of guilt in his gut. All this time, he'd selfishly been wallowing in his own grief, not even pausing to think that maybe some other guy was also going through his own personal hell. Some other guy was probably having to relive the deaths of his buddies every day. Some other guy probably washed his hands incessantly whenever he could, trying to get those old bloodstains out, the ones that were indelibly printed on his skin like some sort of grisly tattoo. He opened his mouth to stutter out an apology, but Sergeant Rich held up his hand._

 _"Shut up. Don't say a word. You didn't want to hear what I had to say, I don't want to hear what you have to say." The depressed smile still graced his face. "Just want you to know that you ain't alone in what you're goin' through. But that shouldn't keep you from at least acting civil toward your squad, nor should it distract from the mission. After all, 'I—"_

 _"—will always place the mission first," Lassiter finished. He shared a look of deep respect and gratitude with Sergeant Rich, but he didn't crack a smile. It would be a while before he could do that again. He nodded affirmatively to Sergeant Rich, indicating he was going to do exactly what he said._

 _Sergeant Rich smiled as he sat up off his haunches and squatted in front of Lassiter. "Keep your head low, ya freakin' grunt." And with that, he swung himself out of the foxhole._

 _Lassiter returned his attention to his rifle._

 _Spring…_

 _Maybe Sergeant Rich wouldn't be so bad after all._

 _Firing pin…_

 _He'd still die like all the others._

 _Bolt…_

 _But at least he knew that he was going to die._

 _BCG…_

 _At least he wasn't trying to avoid it, like all the others before him._

 _Charging handle…_

 _At least he knew why Lassiter kept to himself._

 _Retaining pins…_

 _No. He wasn't a bad guy after all._

 _Lower receiver…upper receiver…_

 _Just another squad leader trying to keep himself and his squad alive for another day._

 _He clicked the two receivers back together and placed the rifle on his lap._

 _Suddenly, a bullet whizzed above his head, followed by a dozen others._

" _Lassiter!"_


	7. I Will Never Accept Defeat

Lassiter pulled his navy Crown Vic into the driveway of the quaint house. It wasn't extravagant, nor was it rundown. In fact, it could have been on one of those real estate ads portraying normal suburbia-it was about as average as a house could get. It had a cozy porch enclosed by a plain white railing. Two rocking chairs sat below the front picture window. The door was a bright red, giving it a rural farmhouse feel. The rest of the house was painted a dull white. It fairly blended into the background. Nothing about it made it stand out, which strangely comforted Lassiter. What he wouldn't give to hide away like that house right now. Hide from the case, from his memories, from his friends, and especially from his partner, who he knew had not forgotten about the promise he made.

She was still staring at him almost accusatorily as he stepped out of the car, but she hadn't said anything more to him about what happened that morning. Instead, she'd tried discussing the case and her theories about it. Lassiter only halfway listened, occasionally murmuring assent to her ideas, though he had his own theories about the case.

His first thought was that the shooting was some sort of gang-related incident. God knows Santa Barbara had had enough of those lately. But then Chief Vick had mentioned the teenage boy's brother being in the Army Rangers and getting killed in Iraq. It was then that Lassiter knew what had happened: the kid had gone crazy. His brother's death, especially on his birthday, in a foreign place, had driven him to the point of madness. Death did crazy things to people, especially death in war. Lassiter recalled one of his buddies (who was now dead himself) who-after watching a 105 mm shell rip through his sergeant-went insane and ripped apart a stray dog with his bare hands. It had taken three bulky soldiers to restrain him. Lassiter remembered the way the soldier's eyes had narrowed, bent on blood. He looked a thousand times more menacing than any Hollywood villain ever could. This was a man who knew how to kill, and had finally been driven to the point where he _wanted_ to kill. He'd still been young and impressionable then, and he couldn't understand why a man would act that way. But, after he'd seen enough death, he realized that every man had his breaking point.

 _I wonder where mine is._

O'Hara slammed her car door. "I have a feeling we may be able to apprehend the murderer here," she confidently stated. Lassiter only nodded and put on his aviators, his only way to hide for now.

Together, they strode through the well-manicured front lawn to the front door, which Lassiter rapped on three times. He heard a heavy sigh and then a clunky shuffling. _Shhh CLUMP shhh CLUMP._ Lassiter immediately knew what the sound was-a prosthetic leg. He'd heard it countless times in Heidelberg at the 95th Evacuation Hospital, where he'd spent over three months staring at the impeccably white ceiling and screaming for morphine.

His hunch was confirmed when a towering older man opened the door: Mr. Murray. He was in khaki shorts and a black t-shirt with a faded white American flag on the front and the crossed rifle insignia of the infantry on his shoulders. He had a slight paunch to his belly, but he was actually quite trim for his age, probably a side effect from having to stay that way for so many years. Lassiter felt the need to salute, but he restrained it. Neither one was in uniform, and he didn't want to raise O'Hara's suspicions anymore than he already had.

"What is it?" Mr. Murray grunted.

Lassiter took over-he felt most comfortable when he was in control. "Mr. Murray, my name is Detective Lassiter and this is my partner, Detective O'Hara. We need to ask you some questions."

"About what?" Mr. Murray's thinning mustache quivered indignantly.

"About the murder of Daniel Choi."

Mr. Murray's countenance shifted, but not to sympathy. Instead, his face broke into a sickening grin. "A gook, eh? The yellow devil get wasted good?"

Lassiter grit his teeth. He could remember when he felt the same way about the Iraqis affectionately termed "ragheads." In fact, he still felt the same. But he swallowed his prejudice and hate and forced himself to say, "Sir, if you don't answer our questions, we'll arrest you for obstruction of justice."

Mr. Murray bristled at the tone of Lassiter's voice, but he stepped aside to let them in. He led them to the kitchen table, upon which sat a half-assembled Makarov pistol. This last part surprised Lassiter, as that particular gun was a Vietnamese service weapon. Considering how much Mr. Murray seemed to hate "gooks" he wondered why he'd have such a weapon rather than an American M1911. He questioned Mr. Murray about it, who once again broke out into a grin.

"Took it off one of them gooks in the war," he bragged. He held the gun up to the kitchen light and examined it carefully. "Shot 'em right through the head with my own gun and snatched it from his holster. Stupid thing didn't even know what hit 'em."

Lassiter noticed O'Hara shudder at these last words, but he remained stoic. He would've done the same thing to any of the Iraqis he had encountered. Probably more. Mr. Murray placed the gun back on the table and looked up expectantly, waiting to be interrogated.

"Well, ask your questions. I ain't got all day."

Lassiter cleared his throat to ask him where he was the night Daniel Choi was murdered but was interrupted by a young whiny voice from upstairs.

"Dad? Have you seen my wallet?" A young boy with crew cut auburn hair and a strong jawline bounded down the stairs. He was tall and lanky, much like Lassiter himself. When he saw the detectives, he froze on the bottom step, his mouth slightly agape.

"Who are these guys, Dad?" he asked hesitantly.

"Detectives, Matthew," Mr. Murray explained. "Go back to your room. I'm sure your wallet is hiding somewhere in all those piles of dirty laundry."

Matthew gratefully turned to leave but O'Hara cut in. "Actually, Matthew, we have some questions for you too, if you wouldn't mind staying.

Matthew rubbed his arm self-consciously. "Oh, uh, yeah sure. Whatever." He inched his way into a seat next to his father and looked down at the table. Mr. Murray took no notice of his son's strange behavior and returned his attention to the detectives.

Detective Lassiter restarted his interrogation. "Where were you on the night of April 21, Mr. Murray?"

Mr. Murray placed his index finger on his chin in mock thoughtfulness and replied sarcastically, "Let's see, which fancy banquet had I been invited to that night?"

"This isn't a joke, Mr. Murray."

He rolled his eyes. "I was here in this very kitchen, cleaning my gun like I do every night."

"Can anyone confirm that?"

Mr. Murray slapped his son on the back. "Matthew here'll tell ya. He was upstairs in his room all night, studying for a math test which he ended up acing."

Lassiter turned his attention to Matthew, who had slouched a few inches down in his seat. "Did you actually witness your father cleaning his weapon?"

Matthew shifted uneasily. "Of-of course I did."

Lassiter and O'Hara shared a knowing glance. _This kid is lying._ O'Hara tried. "Are you sure, Matthew?"

Matthew nodded.

"Okay. Now let me ask _you_ some questions. Where were _you_ on the night of April 21?"

Mr. Murray exasperatedly shook his head. "I already told you idiots that Matthew was in his room all night studying!"

Lassiter held up a hand. "Calm down, sir. These are just routine questions and if you let us ask them, we'll be out of here in no time."

Mr. Murray's frustration did not ebb away, but he leaned back in his seat.

O'Hara asked the question again. "Where were you on the night of April 21, Matthew?"

Matthew looked down at his hands, then at O'Hara, then at his hands again. Lassiter could feel the table vibrate from the kid's spastically bouncing leg.

Lassiter knew that the kid was the murderer-there was guilt all over his face. But he didn't feel the same loathing toward this kid as he did toward the numerous other murderers he'd nabbed over the years. The difference was, he could relate to this kid. He knew what it was like to have a brother die in combat. He'd watch twenty-two of his own brothers die.

He also knew what it was like to reach a breaking point. A point where you just said "Screw it" and began dishing out punishment to the world the way it had dished it out to you. The point where you realized that you couldn't just sit back anymore and let the world take another person you loved. He looked at O'Hara, studying her. She exuded confidence. He wondered what he would do without her, especially at times like these, when the only way to get a confession was through the soft yet firm proddings of a woman. What would she do if he reached his breaking point? Would she be there for him? Would she be frightened or disgusted? Would she still want to be his partner?

 _Where_ is _my breaking point?_

Lassiter shook himself from his thoughts just as Matthew broke down into tears and screamed, " _I did it! I killed that guy!_ "


	8. I Will Never Quit

_**Author's Note: This story is super fun to write and I see now why people enjoy reading and writing fanfiction. Thanks again for the reads and reviews! Remember, if you have anything at all you'd like me to add or change in this story, feel free to review. You won't hurt my feelings at all. I thrive on criticism, my friends. Anyway, back to the story! P.S. I do not own**_ **1984** _ **, and I would never want to own it. That book was not my favorite.**_

 __ _"Lassiter!"_

 _The scene played out like bad slow-motion in an action movie. One minute, Sergeant Rich was idly climbing out of the foxhole. The next, he was flailing back into it with his body mutilated and bloody. Lassiter could do nothing but stare at his gravely wounded squad leader laying in the dust at his feet._

 _"Lassiter! Pull yourself together, man," the corpse shouted over the zip of bullets overhead. But Lassiter could not obey. He sat with his back against the dirt wall and stared, mouth agape, at the man who just a moment ago had been smiling and telling him that he knew what it was to lose brothers in a war, but he had accepted it. Was this some cruel trick by a sadistic god? Did a higher power hear Rich regaling his woes and his determination to get through it?_

 _"_ Lassiter! _"_

 _Sergeant Rich weakly slapped at Lassiter's face from the ground, but he had no strength left in his arm to leave an impression. A gaping hole in his shoulder oozed blood while his other arm had been completely severed at the elbow. His torso no longer had any shape—it was just a mass of blood, muscle, and organs spilling out into the dirt. Ironically, his legs were in almost perfect condition, their only injury being a skinned knee from falling into the foxhole. Rich made a second attempt to knock some sense back into his private. This time, Lassiter shook his head vigorously and began frantically loading his rifle._

 _"Where are they coming from? Where are they coming from?" he cried as he spun in circles on his haunches. The bullets were still shrieking overhead and a few bigger artillery shells were raining down about one or two hundred yards to their rear._

 _"They're coming from behind us!" Rich yelled through his pain. He bit down hard on his lip to keep from breaking down into hysterical tears. It wouldn't do to display his fear in front of Lassiter—the boy was already terrified out of his mind. His eyes were wide as he anchored his rifle over the trench and began aimlessly firing at their rear. Rich reached out a hand to steady Lassiter's shaking form._

 _Lassiter risked a glance down at his sergeant. Blood gurgled from his mouth, but he still wore a sad smile. Horrified, he returned his attention to the blurry forms on the horizon. He couldn't see straight—sweat (and were those tears?) blinded him—and so he fired frantically, hoping to hit something. He quickly scanned the rest of the foxholes. He saw flashes from five different rifles firing in the same direction as him._ Good. Everyone else is still alive.

 _He re-anchored his rifle on the sandy ledge of the trench and squeezed the trigger again, but all he heard was a disappointing click. He slid back the bolt and cursed._

 _"Empty!" he exclaimed. He hurriedly searched his pockets for another magazine or stray bullet or two, but couldn't find any. He slowly looked down at Sergeant Rich. His sergeant was dying and all he had to protect his corpse was a bumbling, incompetent private who had already wasted all his bullets with erratic shooting._

 _But Sergeant Rich didn't seem to care. In fact, he even chuckled a little. "That was some danged crazy shooting, Lassie." His chuckling became too much for his body, though, and he began coughing up blood. Lassiter clawed his way through the dirt to try and make Rich more comfortable. He knew he couldn't save him—he was more metal than man now—but he could at least make his dying minutes less hellish. He ripped off his outer jacket, folded it up, and slipped it under Rich's head. Rich smiled at him gratefully._

 _"Told you my odds weren't great," he whispered. Lassiter pushed Rich's sweaty hair from his forehead. His face was covered in blood and bits of bone. Feeling like he might throw up, Lassiter took a piece of cloth from his pack and, wetting it with some precious water from his canteen, began lightly scrubbing the blood from Rich's face. Rich babbled the whole time, hoping not only to calm himself, but Lassiter as well._

 _"You know, I wasn't one of those guys who always knew he was gonna be in the Army," he mumbled. "My parents were hardcore liberals. Still are, in fact. They believed war was the government's way of keeping the people in line. Just another way for the Wall Street fat cats to get more money. Kind of felt like I was living in that book._ 1984 _, wasn't it? I dunno. I was homeschooled, too._

 _"I mean, my Mom was alright. She was real nice and every so often she'd make me real cookies since my Dad had banned them from the house. My Dad was crazy. Always made gluten-free food and never let me eat meat. If he caught me doing anything against his rules, he'd wallop me. Man, I couldn't even get a ride to school in a friend's truck. Trucks were 'bad for the environment.' I was going to be the 'destroyer of mankind' with my inconsiderate choice of vehicle. I hated him._

 _"I got pissed off at 'em one day. Surprised it hadn't happened before then. I drove off that night in my Dad's car—a stupid Prius. Electric and all that jazz. I drove for like five hours, just kind of skimming the Idaho countryside. Did I tell you I'm from Idaho? Well, I am. Proud citizen of Pocatello, Idaho. Which made it even more strange that my parents were liberals._

 _"Anyway, so I drive for like five hours, taking detours and weaving through the countryside. Suddenly, I find myself at the Army recruiter up in Boise. Well, I park that stupid Prius out front and sit there staring at the front for like half an hour. Don't know what I was thinking. Probably nothing. Probably just staring._

 _"Finally, I decide to walk on in. And when I walk in, I see this recruiter sitting there with a grin on his face. The first thing he says when I walk in is, 'Took you long enough.' Then he offered me a cookie. I joined up right then and there. I knew exactly what I wanted to do with my life, and my parents sure as heck weren't going to stop me anymore."_

 _Lassiter finished sponging off Rich's face and threw the now blood-stained cloth to the side. He wasn't quite sure what to do anymore. Bullets and shells were still exploding everywhere, he still didn't have any ammo, and Rich was still dying. He wasn't going to be much help to anyone right now. Finally, he grabbed hold of Rich's hand and just held it there. Rich squeezed it lightly as a gesture of gratitude._

 _"Never thought I'd die in combat, though, until I came here," Rich continued. His voice was so faint now that Lassiter had to bend down and practically put his ear to Rich's mouth to hear him. "I guess I was scared at first, but after a while, I just kind of accepted that I guess every guy has to die sometime, and I'd rather die here than in the monotonous suburbia of middle-class Idaho." He swallowed and then let out a rattle of air. "You hear that? I sound so much more eloquent when I'm dying." He grinned blankly at the blue sky above, peppered with bullets._

 _He turned to Lassiter and suddenly the grin was replaced by a look of wonder. "Mom? Mom, is that you?"_

 _Lassiter grew uncomfortable and squeezed Rich's hand harder, hoping it would anchor him in reality. Rich continued talking as though his Mom was with him. "Mom, you'll never believe what happened. I got shot! Over here in the gulf! Crazy, right?_

 _"Hey, listen, Mom, I'm going to die. I don't want you to worry. Death is okay. Him and I are pals now. But, listen, you run away from Dad. He's a terrible man. He won't let you eat meat. And you know how much of a temper he gets. Run away, Mom. Don't let him get you. Run away like I did." He chuckled and a trickle of blood spilled from his mouth. Lassiter wiped it off with his free hand. "Join the Army, Mom! Three square meals a day and you get frickin' ripped!"_

 _Rich laughed some more to himself. Lassiter heard the patter of American rifles dying out as the booms of an M1A1 tank rang out through the desert. Reinforcements, Lassiter realized. He breathed a sigh of relief. That was one thing he wouldn't have to worry about anymore. He quickly returned his attention to Rich as the sergeant started screaming._

 _"Mom!" Rich screamed, startling Lassiter. He squeezed Rich's hand tighter. "Mom! Mommy! Help me! He's coming for me! I'm not ready!_ MOM _!_ MOMMY _!" His screams filled Lassiter's ears, drowning out even the heavy artillery from both sides. He grit his teeth and willed himself not to slap Rich. His yells put his teeth on edge and he wanted to silence them once and for all._

 _But then, Lassiter felt like slapping himself. What was wrong with him? A man was dying in his arms and all he could think about was some peace and quiet. Did he have no decency? Maybe he was delirious. Not enough water. Too much sun. Too little exercise._

 _Too much death._ Way _too much death. Lassiter felt like he could never look at a dead body again._

 _Rich gradually stopped screaming and his body deflated. It looked comical, kind of like a balloon man letting out all its air. Lassiter felt a hysterical bubble of laughter rise in his throat, but he pushed it back down. He wouldn't lose it. Not here, not ever._

 _Sergeant Rich looked at Lassiter one last time and grinned. "Guess I'll be your twenty-third, eh, Lassie?"_

 _And then he was gone._

 _Lassiter let go of his sergeant's hand (he had to pry the fingers loose) and shut his glassy eyes. He ripped his dog tags from his neck and shoved them deep into his pocket. Then he pulled himself up and out of the foxhole with his rifle to go find some more ammo._


	9. I Will Never Leave a Fallen Comrade

_**Author's Note: Not to worry Lassiet fans! This chapter will hopefully satisfy all your OTP needs! Or, at least some of them. Also, I once again do not own**_ **Full Metal Jacket,** _ **I just really love referencing it.**_

They'd grilled Matthew for another half hour after taking him and his father to the station, trying to piece together what had happened and why it had happened.

With a deeply sorrowful tone and occasional pauses to sob, Matthew told his story. "April 21 is not a good day for me. Two years ago, on April 21, my brother, Carson, died. He was an Army Ranger serving in Iraq. It was his birthday. Some luck, eh?

"Of course, we got the call about his death almost immediately. The Army's so screwed up that way. They take weeks to get a package of Oreos to your brother but it takes them less than twenty-four hours to tell you that he got his freaking head blown off by a mortar.

"So, the 21st is not a good day for me. Normally, I would have spent it at home in my room, you know? But, I dunno. I guess I just needed to get out of the house that day.

"So, I drove myself to a Chevron and just kind of hung out. I just watched people walk in and out, buying chips, getting gas. I'd also taken my Dad's gun. I don't know why, I just felt a lot more at ease with it."

"Wait," Lassiter interrupted, "if you had the gun, then your father couldn't have been cleaning that gun that night, could he?"

Matthew shifted uneasily. "Well, he had to clean it that night since it'd been fired recently."

O'Hara spoke up. "So, you're saying your father knew you had murdered someone? And he lied to us earlier?"

"He was just trying to protect me."

Lassiter and O'Hara shared an exasperated glance. They had both agreed after one too many cases of parents covering up for children that there was a point when parental guidance went too far. Lassiter got up and opened the interrogation room door to inform Buzz that Mr. Murray needed to be arrested on charges of failure to report a crime and aiding and abetting a crime. He returned to his hard metal chair and motioned for Matthew to continue his story.

Twisting and untwisting his fingers he continued. "I sat at one of those tables they have outside watching traffic go by. I think I may have gone inside to buy a protein bar, but I don't remember. That whole day is kind of a blur.

"But then I saw this dude—"

"Daniel?" Lassiter broke in.

"Is that what his name was? I never caught it. It was the Asian dude. Probably a few years older than me. He was just like me, too. Just a young kid going to the Chevron on a spring day.

"I don't know what happened, but something snapped. I looked at this guy, and all I could see was how foreign he looked. He didn't look American. Then I got to thinking that a foreigner killed my brother. A foreigner killed my brother in a foreign land. My brother was probably scared to death, and a foreigner blew his head off without a second thought. That's when things just went red. All I could think about was killing this dude and I didn't even know him." He looked at Lassiter. "You ever feel that, man? Just that desire to hurt someone? And you don't know why, and you don't really want to, but it just feels like there's an animal inside you that your crappy life has been starving for too long and it just needs to tear apart something?"

Lassiter narrowed his eyes but said nothing. The truth was, he knew exactly what it felt like, but he wasn't about to tell a murderer anything about his own murderous tendencies. He felt the room getting hotter and he pulled at his collar.

Matthew leaned back in his chair again, deflated and defeated. "Anyway, I walked up to him and saw that he was buying a protein bar, like me. I started chatting him up. Found out he liked archery, like me. I told him I had a fancy compound bow in my car and asked if he wanted to see it. He said yes, so I led him out to my car and pulled my gun on him. Told him to get in or I'd pump his guts full of lead.

"We drove for hours, him bawling his eyes out and me trying to find just the right place to do it. Kept telling him to shut up so I could drive, but he just wouldn't do it. I think I might've whacked him once or twice. Finally, I settled on that old warehouse—it was real remote, you know? We pulled up, I led him inside, then I told him to drop to his knees. I tied up his hands and blindfolded him. Even offered him a cigarette, though I didn't have any. I remember asking, 'Isn't this how your people like to do it?' I don't know why. I wasn't thinking straight." His eyes widened in horror. "Oh God, why did I do it?" He dropped his head on the table and began trembling with sobs.

Lassiter rolled his eyes. "What happened next?" Matthew continued sobbing uncontrollably. "Quit crying and tell us your story!" But Matthew couldn't hear. "Pull yourself together, man!" He immediately clenched his jaw shut and his eyes went wide as he remembered the last time he'd heard that phrase. Shells exploded all around the interrogation room and bullets whizzed by his ears. He unconsciously reached in his pocket for his extra magazine—something he'd always kept on him since that day—and clutched it tightly.

This boy was him. He was going to go insane like this boy. It was only a matter of time. He'd see a dark-skinned man or a Muslim woman wearing a shawl and he would snap. He'd murder them with his bare hands without even thinking twice. And he couldn't stop it, any more than he could stop a sandstorm.

O'Hara looked over with concern furrowing her brow. "Carlton," she whispered, but Lassiter continued staring straight ahead at the blank white wall. She reached over and gently placed her hand over his on the table. "Carlton."

Lassiter snapped back into reality and jerked his hand away and into his lap. "I'll be back later," he snapped, abruptly standing and walking out of the interrogation room, slamming the door against the wall as he left.

O'Hara stood as well, torn between her duty and her partner. Finally, she looked at Matthew. "We're not done here." Then she also exited the interrogation room, leaving Matthew alone to drown in his tears.

Lassiter hurried past Buzz's earnest questions at the door, Chief Vick's calls for him to come to her office, and Spencer's and Guster's idiotic jokes from the bullpen. He had blocked out practically all noise from his head. All he could hear were the helpless screams from his dying sergeant and the bullets screaming in his ears. He wanted to fall to the ground and curl up into a ball, but he knew that would only raise more eyebrows and questions.

He didn't bother getting into his car—he needed to be outdoors where there was lots of air. He strode down the sidewalk with his head down, sucking in breaths of air like he had been running for miles. He heard a few people ask if he was alright, but it was as if they were speaking to him from inside an aquarium. Their words were garbled and unintelligible beyond a few common phrases. Lassiter impatiently waved them off (rather roughly in a few cases) and continued walking away.

His thoughts were a jumbled mess and none of them seemed to be connecting to one another. _That boy reached his breaking point two years after it happened. Pull it together, man. You knew guys who didn't break until five years after it happened. Mom? Mom, where are you? Some guys never broke. When will_ I _break? Guess I'm your twenty-third, eh, Lassie?_ Will _I break? What's going to happen if I do? Promise me, Carlton. I promise. What would O'Hara think of him? What would the chief think of him? Come join the Army, Mom! Could he still be a cop if he were a nervous wreck?_

 _Was_ this _his breaking point?_

He stopped, finding himself on a nearly abandoned street, minus some hoodlums gathered around a drug store. Next to him was a narrow alley. It looked and smelled like a sewer, but something was pulling him toward it. The smell and the closeness of it reminded him of his foxhole. He gravitated toward the familiar sensation.

It was quite long, so he ventured down it for a little while. Green dumpsters overflowing with crumpled newspapers, rotten fruit, and an unsightly number of used condoms lined the front of the alley. A few more could have been used, as even more garbage—some in black trash bags, but most just splattered around the cement—lined the rest of the alley as well. A mangy gray cat darted in front of him, cursing him with angry meows. Lassiter glared at it and considered pulling his weapon but then decided against it—he didn't need another reason for the chief to think him incompetent.

He spun in a slow circle, taking in the surroundings. The desolation and filth reminded him of the desert. He knew it wasn't Iraq, but he still had an overwhelming urge to run away screaming from the narrow alley. But, just like when he was in the desert armpit of the Middle East, he was rooted, unable to escape. He pulled at his collar, trying to let in more air, but his lungs wouldn't let him.

He looked deeper into the alley, where the sun couldn't penetrate through a small roof overhead connecting the two adjacent buildings. Pulled by some dark aura, he walked deeper into the alley. He began to hum the Mickey Mouse song, which he'd sang with his squad on tedious marches. He was still sweating profusely. He felt like he was back in the desert again. He took off his jacket and tie completely, tossing them to the side in a pile of trash.

The aura pulled him further in. He felt almost elated by it. It seemed perfectly natural to him to be venturing deep into this dark alley. This was where he belonged—hidden from the world and all the things that he'd done. Hidden from telling the truth or accepting the facts. Hidden in the arms of Death.

He was still so hot. The air felt like it had dried up around him. He had no saliva left to even spit. He took off his shirt and undershirt completely. He even kicked off his shoes and socks. By now, he had figured out that the unseen aura calling to him was Death, and he wanted to greet it without formalities such as shoes or shirts. After all, you couldn't take them with you. As he set down his shirt, he carefully pulled his gun from his holster and loaded a single bullet. If he did the job right, that's all he would need.

He continued his journey, bare-chested, barefoot, and gun in hand. The alley seemed to go on forever. The desert had seemed to go on forever. Maybe Death went on forever too. Lassiter grinned morbidly at the thought. If only.

Finally, he stopped. It was so dark that he could barely see the gun in his hand, but he had long ago memorized its feel. He plopped down in the middle of the alleyway and sat cross-legged. He stared at the gun in his hand. It was a nice gun. He'd been so proud when it was issued to him. He'd finally landed a respectable job and would be expected to protect people, not kill them. He thought that would be his crowning moment. He smiled at the innocence he'd possessed back then. Now he knew what his crowning moment would be. He'd leave this cruel world. This world that had taken practically everything he loved and killed it or made a mockery of it. Twenty-three men dead. His police training, basically void since Spencer showed up. His reputation, almost ruined by every newspaper printing slander about him, making him out to be some sort of Gomer Pyle cop.

He brought the gun up to his temple. He wouldn't need any of that where he was going. He cocked the gun and took a deep breath.

" _Carlton!_ "

The scream cut through his thoughts like a flash of lightning on a pitch-black night. He jumped and the gun flew out of his hand and landed on the cement nearby. The landing jostled it and it went off. The shock of the gunshot barely fazed him as he sat trying to regain his bearings.

" _CARLTON!_ "

He heard footsteps. _Running_ footsteps. Someone was running to him. Looking behind him, he saw a pinprick of light bouncing around. As it got closer, he recognized it as a flashlight with a gun held above it.

"O'Hara?" His mouth was so dry that it came out as a rasp, barely intelligible as words.

She lowered herself to the ground and kneeled next to him. She frantically ran her hands over his arms, legs, torso, and face. Lassiter weakly tried to push her off but she pushed his hands to his sides with a firm "Hold still." He vaguely realized that she thought he'd been shot. Then he wondered if he _had_ been shot. "Am I dead?" he mumbled.

O'Hara paused for a moment to stare at him. There were tears in her eyes. "What on earth were you trying to do, Carlton?" Her voice was barely a whisper. She turned her head to hide the new tears streaming down her face. When she turned, she noticed a dark object about two feet past Lassiter's right hand. She shined her flashlight at it: Lassiter's gun. It was facing the other way, toward a bulging black garbage bag. With a sigh of relief, she realized that's where the bullet had gone.

She turned back to Lassiter, who was staring at the ground and tracing circles absentmindedly. She heard him humming to himself and recognized the melody of the Mickey Mouse song. It was then that she noticed that Lassiter was wearing nothing but his slacks. His whole body glistened with sweat. His chest hair stuck to him in a matted mess.

"Oh Carlton…" she muttered. Lassiter looked at her for a moment, but his eyes had no recognition. In fact, she thought they showed a touch of…fear. And maybe a bit of shame? She put her hand to his burning face and rubbed circles on his face soothingly, rhythmically, hoping to calm him down enough to come back to his senses. She forced him to look her in the eyes, hoping the contact would bring him back to her.

His whole body trembled as he watched her with wide eyes. Having someone care for him was unfamiliar. He tensed at first, but soon his breathing slowed down and the tension began to gradually melt away.

"That's it, Carlton, deep breaths." O'Hara moved her hand up to his hair and caressed it for a minute. Lassiter's eyes began to droop as he leaned toward her. She shifted herself so that he could lay his head on her shoulder. "We've all got our breaking points."

As soon as she said the words, Lassiter began to sob uncontrollably. She gingerly wrapped both her arms around him, and he clutched to her like a buoy in an ocean. She cradled his head with one hand and continued caressing his hair. She rocked him lightly back and forth, murmuring comforting words to him.

His words were incoherent and she could only pick up a few at a time. "The bullets…in my ears…" "Rich died…bloody freaking mess…" "Twenty-two…twenty-three…" "Pull yourself together…man…" She nodded and told him it was all going to be alright. Whatever he was going through, she was his partner, and she would help him through it. She would stay right here with him.

By the time he was finished sobbing, an hour had passed, her shirt was soaked, he was drenched in sweat, and they were both sound asleep, in a garbage-strewn alleyway.

 _ **A/N: Hope you liked that bit. Not super good at writing the "comfort" part of hurt/comfort yet, but that was my first stab at it. P.S. I'd just like y'all to know that as cute as Shawn and Juliet were and Carlton and Marlowe, I really liked Carlton and Juliet. I feel like the only good Lassiet moment we get is Mr. Yin Presents and there's no freaking sound for that scene and it angers me so.**_

 _ **Anyway, rant over. Thanks for reading this far!**_


	10. I Am Disciplined

_**A/N: Alright alright alright. This story is kind of depressing—I'll admit that. But do not fear, my dear readers, for a happy ending is in sight for our beloved Carlton! Real quick: I apologize if my use of the ethnic slur when describing the Iraqis does not offend anyone. I'm only using it because I know that's what a lot of soldiers called them in the war. I, personally, would never use that word and I disagree with all slurs. On a side note, I'll be writing another Psych fic after this, so I'd love some suggestions of what you want to read!**_

 __ _Lemon. He could smell lemon. The sour smell burned his nostrils._

 _His eyes felt glued shut. He tried lifting his hands but they were about ten pounds too heavy for his weak state. He let a groan escape from deep within himself._

 _Suddenly, he felt a light touch on his shoulder. "Relax, soldier," a male treble voice said. "You're in a hospital in Germany. I'm Dr. Gentry. You were shot in the chest. It's a very serious wound, but we have hope that you're going to be alright."_

 _Lassiter tried to nod and say he understood, but all that came out was another low groan._

 _Dr. Gentry patted his shoulder again. "You're a very lucky man."_

Lucky?

 _He heard an escalating beeping as his heartrate went up._ Lucky? _His sergeant had died in his arms and he wasn't able to do a thing to save him._ Lucky? _If he hadn't have been so standoffish in the first place, Sergeant Rich wouldn't have had to come over to the foxhole to talk to him._ Lucky? _He wouldn't have gotten out of the foxhole at the exact moment a raghead caught him in his sights and blasted him._

Lucky? _This quack didn't know the meaning of_ lucky _._

 _He heard Dr. Gentry shuffle his feet uncertainly. "Well, guess I'll be off then. Get some sleep, private. You're gonna need it." His footsteps echoed on what Lassiter guessed was an obscenely white floor with not a speck of dirt on it. Ironically, the idea that he was in a place so unnaturally clean and antiseptic made him want to throw up._

 _Left alone, Lassiter tried to rouse himself from his fatigued state. He couldn't stand just laying here and "recovering." He needed to be out there, doing something, forgetting everything. First, he tried to open his eyes, but they were so heavy. Maybe if he just left them closed for a little while longer…_

No. _He needed out of this lemon-scented prison, and he needed out now. He'd go crazy left with nothing but his thoughts, his guilt, and the pity of sympathetic strangers. He didn't want to endure any of that for any longer than he had to._

 _He tried again, forcing himself to stay awake. He could feel the sweat drenching his body with the exertion._ Ironic, _he mused. He was a soldier who could at one point carry a 300-pound sandbag for five miles without breaking a sweat, and now he couldn't even lift his eyelids. His frustration invigorated him and he finally opened his eyes halfway. His lashes still slightly veiled his view, but he could see enough._

 _Just like he had pictured, the room was a sterile white—not a speck of dust or dirt anywhere. His bed even had white blankets, pillows, and guardrails. It felt like an asylum._

 _With another great, concentrated effort, he turned his head to his right where a curtained window taunted him. Though the sheer white (what other color would they be?) curtains were drawn, sunlight still teased the room. Lassiter felt a deep ache in his body. He wished he could be out in that sun now, getting sunburnt and dehydrated and exhausted. He parted his lips in a small whimper._

 _"What are you looking at, soldier?"_

 _If he had been in better shape, he would have jumped. As it was, his body felt much too heavy to move, so only his slightly-widened eyes revealed his alarm._

 _A young woman with blonde hair tied back into a ponytail walked in front of the window, forcing Lassiter to look at her. Her baby blue scrubs were faded and had numerous stains on them—remains of long days without food, sleep, or showers. Her smile was stretched much too tight, as if she'd had to keep it on all day (which, Lassiter realized, she probably had)._

 _"My name is Julianne. I'll be your nurse while you're here." She reached behind Lassiter's head and pulled down a remote control with a cord attached. "This is your call button. Press the button when you need me. Has the doctor told you exactly how long you're expected to be here?"_

 _His body protesting the effort, he shook his head. Julianne's brow furrowed and she shook her head. "Dr. Gentry, you absolute idiot," she muttered under her breath. She raised her voice. The smile was gone now. "You've been shot in the chest, Private Lassiter. That's not a wound you can just recover from in a week like they do in the movies. You're going to be here for upwards of three months. Do you understand?"_

 _Lassiter nodded—it was getting easier now—and turned his head to stare at the ceiling. He curled his hands into loose fists (since he could not clench them any tighter) and willed himself not to cry in front of this woman. Soldiers weren't supposed to break down like emotional schoolgirls. They stood strong in the face of adversity. They could watch twenty-three of their buddies die and not even bat an eye. War is hell but you're the gatekeeper. You've seen it all._

 _Julianne seemed to understand. "I'll leave you be. You press that button if you need anything." She padded out soundlessly in her worn-out sneakers with no tread._

 _Lassiter clenched his jaw as tight as he could. Three months. Three months for him to sit in silence, stewing in his guilt-ridden, violent thoughts. Three months for him to think of the many ways he could just end it all and forget about what happened. Three months to relive the terror of a shelling in the middle of the night or a bullet taking out one of his buddies on a patrol. Three months too long._

 _The days and nights passed in agony—in the days, he was bored and restless; in the nights, he was terrified and ashamed to admit that he was now afraid of the dark. Some nights he woke up screaming, setting off all kinds of heart monitor alarms. On those nights, Julianne would come in and send all the other nurses out while she took his hand and repeated to him that everything would be okay and why don't you shut your eyes for a while?_

 _Some days he became so angry—angry that he had been shot, angry that he was still alive, angry that they wouldn't let him go—that he refused his meals and attacked any nurse that dared breach his personal space. On these days, Julianne would clear the room, close the door, and stand by his bed (just out of reach, of course) with her arms crossed, staring at him until the snarl left his face and his breathing wasn't so rabid. Then she would take the uneaten food next to his bed and practically throw it on his lap, threatening that if he didn't eat it all she would shoot him again. This last comment would almost get him to smile, but he couldn't bring himself to make the expression just yet._

 _Julianne was the only bright spot of his day. The other doctors and nurses only gave curt replies to his questions, sometimes ignoring him completely. Dr. Gentry wouldn't give him any specifics about his condition, preferring to tell Lassiter that he was fine and could go back to sleep, even though he'd just woken up. The nurses wouldn't even let him eat with a fork and knife anymore, fearing that he would turn them into weapons and attack them._

 _But Julianne understood him. She'd give him every detail of his condition, right down to the disgusting ones that even he didn't care to know. She'd sneak in utensils for him to eat his food, trusting him enough not to hurt her. She'd even relate to him the news from the Gulf, reciting casualty reports and the latest from the front. She was the only thing keeping him from ripping out the tubes in his body and running out the door, killing anyone who dared get in his way._

 _After a few weeks, he was finally able to walk again, with the help of Julianne. Lassiter found it was easier to cope with his invalid status if he could wander the halls of the hospital, so they took a long walk through the corridors together about once a day._

 _"So, you're doing remarkably well," Julianne noted on one of these walks. She had an arm linked through Lassiter's right elbow, but was otherwise not supporting him. He wanted to be as independent as possible and glared at her if she tried to do anything more to help him. They walked at a snail's pace down the blinding white hallway._

 _Lassiter grunted in reply. He still hadn't said more than a few sentences to Julianne. He felt he could trust her though, which is why she received a response at all._

 _"Dr. Gentry says you should be out of here in the next month or so."_

 _Another grunt, this one much softer in tone. He really did want to go home._

 _Julianne smirked at her patient's grumpiness. He reminded her of a child. A sullen child who didn't get his way and so he was sulking all over the house. She was going to miss the big lug. But her grin immediately vanished as they walked by another patient's room._

 _"Mom! Mom, help me! They're trying to kill me!"_

 _She heard feet scuffling and a few frantic cries of "It's okay, soldier, relax!" She tried to hurry Lassiter past the room, but he stopped cold in front of it. He craned his neck to see inside._

 _"Private, let's keep walking. Obviously, that man is in intense pain and doesn't need an audience."_

 _But Lassiter refused to budge. He continued peering inside. Because of the layout of the room, all he could see was a curtain and some shadows flailing about the walls. He took a step toward the doorway to get a better view._

 _"Mom! Mom!"_

 _Julianne tugged lightly on the sleeve of his navy plush bathrobe. "C'mon, Private, nothing to see here." But Lassiter had already passed through the door and was stumbling closer to the commotion. Julianne grabbed his elbow and tried to stop him, but he firmly (but with a certain gentleness, she noted) pushed her hand off. He slowly, painfully, made his way to the curtain and tentatively peeked around it._

 _A young man lay on the white bed, no more than nineteen years old. Only, the bed was no longer white. Blood spatter speckled the starched sheets and pooled around the boy's body. Four nurses surrounded the bed, one for each limb. They were all trying desperately to restrain the thrashing boy, but he was much too strong. The dog tags jangling around his neck told Lassiter that he was also in the military._

 _"Mom! Mom, please help! Help!" The soldier was hysterical, tears streaming down his face, screaming for his mother over and over._

 _Lassiter had a brief flashback to when Sergeant Rich died, when he called forlornly for his own mother. He couldn't help but see him on the bed before him, his body torn to shreds by bullets and screaming at Lassiter to fire back. Suppressing a grimace, he blinked hard to rid himself of the memory and looked once again at the pitiful soldier. One of the nurses looked up from wrestling his leg and glared._

 _"Get out of here! We don't need more trouble! Go on!" She pointed to the door angrily. She had been one of the nurses he had once punched in a fit of anger, Lassiter realized. He ignored her and took another step towards the bed. He scooted around one of the nurses so he could stand at the head of the soldier's bed._

 _The nurses were all scowling at him now. They'd all been victims of the raging Lassiter at one point during his stay. But they were all much too preoccupied to do anything about it._

 _Lassiter reached out with a shaky hand and placed it on the soldier's forehead. Immediately, the boy stopped thrashing about. With his eyes still closed, the boy mumbled, "Mom? Mom, is that you?"_

 _Lassiter's eyes widened as he looked around at the nurses. They collectively shrugged and, dropping the boy's limbs, went about their business connecting IVs and checking heartrates, now that he no longer had to be restrained. Lassiter turned back to him. He wasn't sure what to do. He couldn't pretend to be this kid's mother. But would he start thrashing around again if he said he wasn't his mother, but just another soldier trying to help? He took a deep breath._

 _"No, soldier. My name's Priv—my name's Lassie."_

 _The soldier licked his lips. "Like the dog?"_

 _Lassiter nodded, then realized the kid couldn't see. "Yeah, like the dog. My real name's Lassiter."_

 _The soldier grinned slightly, revealing at least five chipped front teeth. "Lassie. I like it. You know, I got a nickname, too. JFC. I think you know what that stands for."_

 _Lassiter grinned—his first grin since deploying. It was a common acronym soldiers scrawled on various objects throughout the war-torn desert and referred to the grunts as. "Yeah, I know all about that." He smoothed back JFC's hair from his damp forehead and surveyed the blood surrounding him. There was so much of it. Too much. "How long has he got?" he whispered to a nurse next to him, so low only she could hear._

 _"He won't last the night," she said at a normal volume. She was past trying to protect anyone's feelings—hers had been swept away years ago._

 _Lassiter turned back to JFC and mustered a weak giggle. "So, where'd you get the great name?"_

 _JFC grinned and launched into a story about his recruit days, but Lassiter didn't listen. He didn't even really see the boy. All he saw was the face of Sergeant Rich as he lay in the foxhole, half of him blown away, grinning up at him from the dust, babbling about his own recruitment story and his family. He chose to focus on a piece of green lint next to JFC's pillow. His eyes bore into the little piece of fuzz, memorizing every curve and strand of fabric creating it. It was as small and insignificant as he felt right now. But if he got enough of the little fuzz balls together, he could create something bigger. Just like the Army. Each man was insignificant alone, but once you put enough of them together, you could sure kill a whole lot of people._

 _It was a trick he'd learned in the heat of combat from his first sergeant, Sergeant Clayton._ Hyper-focus, men. That'll get you through it. Choose something to focus on and don't worry about anything else. Your buddy gets shot on patrol—you focus on your bolt as you pump like heck to get the bastard that shot 'em. _You_ get shot on patrol—you focus on that rock next to your face and you memorize every nook and cranny like it's your girlfriend. That, my boys, is how you get through hell.

 _JFC had finished his story and was now ranting about his hometown, just like any red-blooded American soldier. Lassiter wanted to roll his eyes at how much the scene felt like a movie, with the blond, squeaky-clean American kid babbling about how proud he was to serve his country as the hot lead in his body slowly, painfully killed him. His words had slurred so badly that even if he had wanted to, Lassiter wouldn't be able to understand him. He took JFC's hand and squeezed it gently, hoping the gesture would express what he wanted to say but couldn't right now._ Shut up, grunt. Just shut up. Nobody likes a drama queen. You're dying, and that's that. You're going to die, and you're going to be scared. But it's going to be okay, because you're going to go to whatever is after this life and meet Sergeant Rich and John Wayne and Audie Murphy and they're going to pat you on the back and say, "Good work, soldier," and you'll never have to fight again and you'll finally be able to lay back and relax without the fear that the chair under your butt could blow up at any minute.

 _Suddenly, he realized that JFC's hand had gone limp in his own. His eyes were still closed, but his mouth was open. He heard the last exhale of air leave the boy's lungs. He was gone._

 _"Well, he sure went quick, didn't he?" one of the nurses remarked. She pushed Lassiter back towards the curtain and checked JFC's pulse. The rest of the nurses went about their business readying the body for the morgue and recording time of death._

 _Lassiter felt numb. Just the twenty-fourth guy in a long procession of death. Just another freakin' grunt who got killed in a foreign land without even getting to say goodbye to anyone who cared about. He wished he could feel something—sorrow, anger, hurt, frustration—anything that would make him seem human. But he could feel nothing. His heart had frozen over and his brain was a blank screen. Soldier's don't feel. Soldiers don't care. Soldiers aren't human._

 _He felt a small hand at his elbow. It was Julianne._

 _"It's time to go, tough guy." She led him away and he followed with no resistance._


	11. Physically and Mentally Tough

_**Author's Note: Sorry for the spotty updates—I've been trying to prepare for college and all that good stuff. But I've had a lot of free time lately so I figured it's time for the update that all 300+ of you are waiting so anxiously for. In fact, I even wrote half of this in the college library. I'm such an adult, guys. Like, bring on the taxes and the debt y'all cuz I am so ready for it. Jk, please don't do that. Anyways, I'm thinking one more chapter (an epilogue of sorts) will finish this off, and then I'll be done with it! Seriously, please give me some ideas for what you want to read next! I am down for anything!**_

Waking up in a garbage-strewn alley wasn't Juliet's idea of an ideal morning. She wasn't even sure if it _was_ morning—the alley was dark enough that it could have been early dawn or late night. She crinkled her nose at the stench. It smelled of sweat, rotten fruit, and human waste. To distract herself from the offending odor, she took a mental itinerary of her body and limbs. Her hands and feet were dry and cracked—she was most likely dehydrated. Her tongue felt like a swatch of carpet—fuzzy and much too big for her mouth. Her back ached so badly that she had to bite her tongue to keep from crying out. She rotated her shoulder to ease the knots from it, but something hindered her movement.

A warm, shirtless, breathing something.

 _Carlton._

Within seconds, the night before came rushing back to her: the pitch-black alleyway, the sharp crack of a gunshot, the dazed man who sobbed in her arms and clutched her like a scared child. She gently nudged him. He groaned but otherwise didn't move. She guessed that he was about as sore and tired as she was, probably more so. Nevertheless, she tried again, this time pushing him up slightly so he'd be forced to move.

Carlton groaned again and drowsily opened his eyes. Red streaks added to the startling cobalt irises that gazed up at her in anguish. Those lines that were much too old to be crossing his face, the bags drooping from his eyes, the eternal frown pulling at his mouth—Juliet knew that something sinister in Carlton's past was haunting him, something that had turned the strong, silent man she knew into the emotional wreck that huddled beside her.

And he had _promised_ to tell her what was wrong.

"Carlton," Juliet whispered, "I think you have some things you need to tell me."

Lassiter averted his eyes, choosing instead to focus on a chunk of cement resting against an olive-green dumpster. He hated seeing the concern in O'Hara's eyes. He didn't need people asking if he was okay or if he needed anything or if they could help him. All the sympathy, all the pity—it was _fake_. No one cared how he was doing, they just went through the motions of when a soldier came home: congratulate them, pity them, tell them it would all be okay, then give up and leave them. It was humiliating enough as it was. He was a soldier, a member of one of the most elite militaries in the world. Only now he couldn't even do his job because he was too much of a coward to even interrogate a suspect.

Lassiter shook his head. There was nothing he needed to tell her.

Juliet furrowed her brow—not really a glare, but no longer the soft look she had donned a moment ago. "Carlton, you _promised._ "

Lassiter winced. He couldn't help but remember a line from an old cheesy song, "The Ballad of the Green Berets" (he'd heard it on the radio at Hank's place long ago): _Men who mean just what they say._ Soldiers said what they meant and meant what they said. Could he really call himself a soldier if he broke his promises or mean just what he said? He looked up at O'Hara with a desperate plea, hoping she'd understand. He just couldn't relive the agony right now. But her gaze remained firm—she would learn of his past no matter how much it hurt him. He almost laughed at the resemblance to himself—after years of solving cases together, always at each other's sides, she'd acquired the same stubbornness that he'd shown her on numerous occasions.

He sighed and, sitting up, began to tell her a story—the story of his life. "My childhood wasn't all peaches and cream, O'Hara, and you know that…" He began with how he enlisted, a desperate attempt to get out from under the domineering thumb of his mother and escape the monotony of school (a monotony he later welcomed). He then regaled the grueling adversity that was boot camp and the exhilaration of finishing it.

He paused for a minute. The next part of the story recounted his deployment. _This wasn't going to be easy._ He felt his hands begin to tremble at the mere memory of reading those orders aloud with his equally dumbfounded roommates. Of standing on that tarmac waiting for the lumbering Starlifter to take them away to the enchanted land of yellow-white sand and perpetual chaos. Of clutching his rifle next to a hundred other men, thrown together in the cramped hold of the cargo plane. O'Hara took notice of his hesitation and gently grabbed his hand.

"Listen, Carlton. I know it's hard, but you've got to tell someone. And it might as well be me."

He met her eyes and felt the strength she was earnestly trying to project to him. He took a deep breath, closing his eyes as he inhaled deeply. He exhaled and opened them again, taking careful note of O'Hara's body language: she leaned forward slightly and pursed her lips. She was eager to know exactly what he wasn't telling her.

"Alright," he conceded. "After about six months of dinking around at Fort Irwin, I was called up for deployment—to the Gulf. I was part of a small squad that would get dropped near Al Wafrah and trek our way to Khafji to join up with a larger company, taking out various nests of insurgents on the way."

He made sure to look up and make direct eye contact with O'Hara for the next part. _She needed to understand._ "There's something you need to know about war, O'Hara, before I go too far. War makes people…different. It makes some more cynical. It drives some crazy. It wasn't strange for a guy to start hysterically laughing one day and just…never stop. It makes absolute basket cases out of guys. And then there's the guys like me. War curses us."

"Curses?"

 _Here goes._ "I've watched twenty-four men die, O'Hara. All of them were a part of my squad at one point. A good chunk of them were my sergeants."

For a moment, time froze. O'Hara made no expression, nor did Lassiter. They both stared at one another, waiting for the other to make a move.

O'Hara was the first to break the spell. She put a hand to her mouth. She was torn between horror at the atrocities Carlton had seen or relief that he was still alive. He could have died so many times, either from a sniper's bullet or from his own. Stronger men than him would have committed suicide—but not Carlton.

She tried to formulate a question. To ask how he'd come this far. To ask how he'd gotten through it. To ask how he'd kept his wits and not gone completely insane. But all that came out was "How?"

But Lassiter understood. "I don't know. I don't know how I got through it. How I didn't take my rifle and turn it on myself. I guess I was just too much a coward to end it all."

O'Hara's eyes flashed dangerously. "You are _not_ a coward, Carlton! You are the strongest man I have ever known. A lesser man would never have been able to go through what you have and still be alive and moving on with life and holding a steady job. How could you _ever_ call yourself a coward?"

He shrugged and heaved a great sigh before moving on with his story, this time trying his hardest to talk fast so he wouldn't have time to think about what he was saying. Throughout it all, O'Hara's face remained sympathetic yet firm. Neither one of them could afford to show any emotion right now without completely losing it. Lassiter continued to go through every one of the deaths he'd witnessed, making sure to spare no details. He told her about Sergeant Boone and his near decapitation, when Corporal Kemp got run over by a tank in a hasty retreat, the time PFC Santos was shot thirteen times in the chest, but was still alive enough to crawl into Lassiter's foxhole, plead for help, yell Lassie's name helplessly over and over, and then die. Finally, he told her about Sergeant Rich, and how he'd cried out for his mother, how he died in his arms, how he wouldn't have been there if it weren't for Lassiter.

When he finished, she remained silent for a beat more. She fussed with her ponytail. "Well."

Lassiter couldn't bear to look her in the eyes, so he studied his bare feet. They ached terribly, but he pushed the pain far back in his mind so he could focus on the scars that made up his mottled feet. There was the serrated one from when he'd accidentally nicked himself with his pocketknife playing five finger (or, in this case, toe) fillet on a horridly boring night in the barracks. There was the burn mark from when he'd gone out shooting barefoot and a shell had landed gotten caught between his toes. There were the callouses from a thousand arduous patrols in the heat and the unforgivingly hard ground. They looked more like an old man's feet than his.

Finally, O'Hara turned to face Lassiter. She pulled up his chin so that he would be forced to meet her eyes. His were wide and frightened, but hers were strong and confident. She gazed into his for a moment, forcing him to focus on her. "I'm here for you, partner. You know that."

Lassiter nodded.

"So, we're going to get through this thing together, aren't we? I won't leave you alone, and you'll tell me exactly what I need to do help you."

Again, Lassiter nodded. Tears were brimming in his eyes.

"And I want you to know something, Carlton. _None of this is your fault._ You did your best in a war that took the lives of many men. No matter what you did, those men would still be dead. That's just how war is. Do you understand, Carlton? _It's not your fault._ Say that back to me."

Lassiter mumbled.

" _Say it, Carlton._ "

"It's not my fault," he whispered.

"Louder!"

"It's not my fault."

"Louder, Carlton!"

"It's not my fault."

"Now, say it like you actually believe and mean it."

" _It's not my fault!_ " Lassiter shouted the words, his voice growing hoarser and hoarser with each yell. By the time he had yelled them loud enough for O'Hara, he was drenched in sweat and shaking. He ran his hand through his hair self-consciously. O'Hara stopped him halfway through and caressed the back of his knuckles with her thumb.

"Alright. That's that."

They sat for a while longer like that, Lassiter slumped against her shoulder while she rubbed his hand absentmindedly. It was nice, he thought, to have someone to lean on for once. To not have to be the strong one anymore. And her touch was so comforting, so soothing. Lassiter allowed himself to close his eyes for a moment, savoring the moment he knew would never last as long as he wanted it to. He let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding in a long exhale through his nose. It was the first time in years that he'd finally felt relief. It was the sweetest feeling in the world.

Much too soon, O'Hara stood up and moved in front of him. "Now, why don't we head back to your apartment and get you cleaned up?"

"Yeah," he mumbled. It had been so long since he'd allowed someone to take care of him. Not like there had been many people who wanted to, though. When he'd returned home from the Gulf, the military psychologist had brushed him off on the first visit, saying that it was just a touch of natural PTSD (as if flinching after every relatively loud noise and almost crying at the sight of sand were natural reactions), that every guy went through it. Lassiter had brought up the fact that if every guy went through it, then he should be able to help him. But the psychologist had guffawed and said, "You'd think, huh?" Then he'd given him some sedatives and told him to get home and forget about it.

His mother had been a bit more sympathetic, but after a few nights of waking up to his terrified screams, she had also grown cold, telling him that he needed to "man up" and that he wasn't the strong Lassiter she had once known. He'd moved out shortly after that—stifling his screams with a pillow wasn't something he could do for the rest of his life.

In college, he met a professor who was also a veteran. He'd told the class at the beginning of the semester that he'd seen action in Vietnam and had even been a minor part of the battle at Hue. Lassiter assumed this man would understand exactly how he felt. He was mistaken. As soon as he mentioned that he was a veteran, too, the man shut down and refused to acknowledge him. He never could figure out why, but he assumed it was because he was not still in the Army. The only people who got out of the Army early were perverts and rulebreakers, both equally hated in the military. He never told the man that he'd gotten an early discharge due to the unusual amount of hardship he'd faced—soldiers didn't like wimps either.

After that, he'd given up telling anyone that he was a veteran, or that he still suffered from PTSD, or that he was still terrified every time a car backfired, or that he spent every Fourth of July cowering in the corner of his room with a .30-06 laying across his knees. He didn't even tell Chief Vick. Though he assumed he could trust her, he wasn't about to make the same mistake again.

But O'Hara was different. She was his _partner_. Someone he knew he could trust. Someone who had gone through the same things he'd gone through in the past four years. She'd seen some of the same things he had. She knew who he was and how much he could take. And she would take care of him, no matter what. He knew that. And it felt so good to finally realize it.

O'Hara bent down and hooked her arms under his armpits to lift him. Once he was up on his feet (and not threatening to tip over backward), she led him a few feet back down the alley to retrieve his clothes. She made him stuff his aching feet into his shoes and button up the shirt, but she did not make him tuck it in, nor did she make him wear the restricting suit jacket or tie. He silently thanked her for the gesture, as he knew that they'd only suffocate him. With a hand across his shoulders, she led him back out into the early morning sun.

"Welcome back, partner. Everything's okay now."


	12. Epilogue

_**A/N: Aiight fam this is the last installment of the internationally-acclaimed "Is That You, Lassiter? Is This Me?" franchise. Which means it will be time to move on to other things. It's still not too late to give suggestions! Otherwise, I'll probably just write another random Lassie story cuz I can.**_

Neither one spoke on the ride home. No complaints about how O'Hara's green Beetle was much too cramped for a man of Lassiter's stature. No terse comments to roll the window up because it was freezing. No questions of why he'd waited so long to tell her—or anyone, for that matter. No explanations given. Just silence.

At red lights, Juliet snuck a peek at her exhausted partner. His chin rested on his fist and his elbow rested on the narrow ledge of the window. Though his eyes were shut, she could imagine that he knew exactly where they were just by the feel of the road and careful mental measurements. His lips were pressed together in a thin line, to the point where she almost couldn't see them.

Lassiter felt her eyes boring into him during those frequent stops in the California traffic, but he chose to keep his eyes closed. It was the first time in many years he had closed his eyes around someone. It was odd to trust someone again, especially when his life wasn't on the line and bombs weren't exploding all around him. But the sensation was pleasant. Much like having a cool drink of water after a ten-mile hike, O'Hara was that cool drink after the precarious hike through his past.

Finally, the engine slowed to a crawl and then turned off completely. "We're here." O'Hara's tentatively gentle voice roused him from his half-stupor and he lifted his head from his hand. "You need any help getting out?"

Lassiter shook his head as emphatically as he could with his pounding headache (most likely from all the tears he'd shed in the past twenty-four hours). Stifling a groan, he unfolded himself from the tiny passenger seat and straightened himself in his driveway. Apprehensively, he surveyed his home. The home that he'd hid over three dozen weapons in, just in case. The home that had an emergency bunker in the backyard, just in case. The home that he swept for mines every week, just in case.

O'Hara noticed his hesitation and crossed in front of the car to assist her partner, but he waved her off and strode purposefully to his front door. He fiddled with the key for a moment—his hands were shaking too much to insert it (from exhaustion or emotion, he couldn't tell, though he guessed it was a combination of both). Finally, he crossed over the threshold into his house, O'Hara half a step behind. She took his jacket and tie and laid them across a kitchen chair, then turned to face him.

"Are you going to be okay?"

Lassiter avoided her penetrating gaze and chose to focus on a picture hanging on the opposite wall. No one ever came to his house, so he'd never had to explain it. If he did, he figured he'd just say it was a picture of a nonexistent brother or something along those lines.

It was his boot camp graduation photo. He wore the standard green camouflaged fatigues, with the hat pulled down to its precise position, the creases pressed until they were sharp enough to stab a buffalo, the letters on his left breast pocket emblazoning the uniform with his name. As much as he tried to hide it, he was very proud of it and wanted nothing more than to shout to the world that he'd made it through boot camp and was an American soldier. But statements like that generally led to questions, questions he wasn't prepared to answer right now. So he'd hidden it, along with his Purple Heart, his first combat boots, the dummy grenade an Iraqi soldier had thrown at him, and his Army-issued multi-tool.

Still avoiding her gaze, Lassiter replied, "You know, O'Hara, I don't know right now. I don't know if I can go back to work and pretend that every time I see someone else carrying a gun, it doesn't make me want to draw mine. I don't know if I can sit at that desk and listen to Spencer call me 'Lassie' one more time without wanting to cry my eyes out because he has no idea how much that name means to me. I don't know if I can be around so many young faces again, knowing that in our profession, there is a high statistical probability that I'll be looking down at one of their corpses next week. I don't know if I can ever get in a firefight again without freezing up. I just don't know, O'Hara."

O'Hara furrowed her eyebrow, but said nothing more. To hear his fears voiced so bluntly after years of stony silence was strange to say the least. She'd tried for so long to get her curmudgeonly partner to open up and now he was doing exactly that. She had never wanted to see her partner break down like this, but she couldn't take it back now.

Instead of choosing to say anything, she walked forward until she was right underneath Carlton's nose, looking defiantly up into his stormy irises. She gripped his hands tightly. "Listen, Carlton. We don't _need_ to tell anyone what happened last night. We don't _need_ to tell anyone what happened in your past. We don't _need_ to tell anyone who you really are. But don't you think they have a right to know?"

Lassiter tried to look away but O'Hara grabbed his face and forced him to look at her. " _Don't you?_ "

Lassiter thought of all the people at the station. They put their lives in each other's hands every day, expecting their coworkers to do the same. Even Spencer took a certain amount of risk (in his case, usually a _lot_ of risk) when he consulted with the department. If their head detective was keeping secrets from them, could they really trust anyone anymore? What would that do to the department?

Lassiter sighed. "Yeah. Yeah, they do," he barely whispered.

O'Hara nodded. "That's right. They do. Tomorrow you're going to call a department meeting. You will even invite Shawn and Gus. You will tell them exactly what you've hidden from them for so long, and why you've hidden it. Okay?"

"Okay."

O'Hara wrapped her arms around Lassiter's waist and held him tightly. He held her just as tightly, slightly rocking the two of them together. They were both exhausted and smelled like every type of filth imaginable. Juliet's hair was a rat's nest and Carlton's was sticking straight up in multiple places. Both hadn't brushed their teeth and could feel the grit accumulating on them. But neither pulled away. At this moment, in each other's arms felt like the most natural thing in the world to them. There was nowhere else they wanted to be.

They stayed like that for a while, both simply enjoying the warmth they felt from the other. Every so often, Juliet rubbed small circles on Carlton's back. Carlton softly hummed a tuneless song. The worries of the world melted away as they clung to each other, breathing in each other and reassuring one another that neither would leave the other. Finally, Juliet spoke up.

"Alright," she mumbled into the front of Carlton's shirt, "Now, go take a shower."

 **Four years later…**

O'Hara rushed into the posh room where the rest of the SBPD was already seated. At the front of the room stood a podium with the seal of the Department of Defense. Two windows lay behind the podium, with silky white curtains adorning them. Yellow sunlight streamed through the thin fabric. In front of the podium lay ten rows of ten red velvet chairs with an aisle down the middle. Chief Vick waved her over to an empty seat between her and Shawn on the right front row. O'Hara gratefully tiptoed over and took the seat.

"Traffic was a mess!" she exclaimed. "Did I miss anything? Have they given it yet?"

"No, you're just in time." The Chief pointed to a distinguished-looking gentleman standing near the podium. The eagles on his collar indicated he was a colonel. He was clearing his throat uncertainly and silently reviewing the index cards in his hand.

Juliet waved at Shawn and Gus, who were discreetly engaged in a thumb war. Gus unapologetically tweaked Shawn's thumb after he deliberately scratched Gus with his fingernail. Shawn silently howled, shaking his hand and elbowing Gus as hard as he could in the ribs. Juliet glared at the two of them. Shawn sheepishly grinned while Gus glared at the back of Shawn's head. Juliet rolled her eyes.

"Can you two pull it together for a few minutes? This is really important!"

"Sorry, Jules," Shawn whispered. He grinned. "Hey, why does Lassie look like he's getting a prostate exam?" She elbowed him hard in the gut, but also stifled a giggle at the image. Because the truth was, Lassiter _did_ look comically nervous.

He stood to the left of the podium with his hands firmly pressed against his sides in the standard "attention" position. He wore his Army service uniform that looked more black than the blue it supposedly was (Carlton and she had spent a considerable amount of time the night before arguing about the specifics of the color). Every crease on his uniform had been ironed and starched to perfection. His hat was pulled down, as per regulation, but O'Hara wished he could pull it up slightly so she could see his eyes, which were wide open and staring straight ahead at nothing. He looked every bit the soldier he was meant to be, and she felt a rush of pride in him. She tried to silently convey a sense of strength to him, to let him know how good he looked in that uniform, to quell his nervousness. She thought she saw his mouth twitch slightly, but she figured her eyes were playing tricks on her.

Finally, the colonel quit hemming and hawing and stepped up to the podium microphone. "Good morning. Today, we are here to award Private Carlton J. Lassiter the Achievement Medal for Civilian Service…" He continued to drone on about the significance of the medal and its history. Juliet tuned him out while she once again admired her soldier. Then, she saw it again: his mouth twitched. He was unmistakably trying to hide a smile of his own. It was probably the first time he'd had to do that since graduating boot camp. She also tried to hide the smile that crept onto her face.

"We award this to Private Lassiter for his tireless work as head detective of the Santa Barbara Police Department," the colonel continued. "He has shown considerable bravery, aptitude, and compassion for the people he serves and the people he works with." He turned to Carlton, who still did not break his position. "Private."

Lassiter turned on his heel and faced the colonel, who took a black box from the podium and opened it to reveal a golden medal with a blue and white striped ribbon. With fumbling fingers, he pinned it to the front of Lassiter's uniform. "Congratulations, Private Lassiter." He saluted Carlton, who snappily returned it. The colonel began clapping and gestured for Carlton to face the crowd, which he did reluctantly. The rest of the audience joined in. A few began standing and soon Lassiter was receiving a standing ovation. He continued gazing stoically into the crowd, still hiding a smile.

He turned to meet Juliet's eyes. Finally, he released the persistent smile, which graced his face with a joy Juliet had never seen there before. She smiled back and laughed a little.

He mouthed the words, _Thank you._

She mouthed back, _You're welcome, partner._

 _ **I apologize if you think that was too rushed or too weak an ending. But see, this is what you guys should be commenting about in the reviews! Anyway, huge thanks to Loafer and your reviews! Also to StoryReader13 (you thought I'd forgot about you, didn't you? WELL I DIDN'T)! I'll be starting the next story soon, so that should be up in the next week or so. Maybe this time I will actually plan my story ahead. Thanks again for the reads and reviews!**_


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